


Conflict of Interest

by Madlyie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: All the murder things happen off stage, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Communication is the key kids, Fluff and Angst, I have a weakness for Parnasse, M/M, Mentions of Racism, Mentions of homophobia, also Marius is a gem, and, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madlyie/pseuds/Madlyie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras’s life is Busy, with a capital B. He has established a small but renowned law firm with Courfeyrac which is not an easy undertaking if you consider yourself a defence attorney with a functioning moral compass in New York City. When Bossuet, an old college friend, asks Enjolras to take on the case of Grantaire, an aspiring fine-art photographer who is the suspect in the investigation of a brutal homicide he hasn’t expected it to get... personal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conflict of Interest

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so this started with me thinking, 'Mhh, there's this idea for this cute little murder story I have, why not do that?' As it turns out, I'm not good at keeping things cute and little which, at this point, shouldn't be all that surprising anymore.
> 
> A huge thanks goes to [defractum](http://defractum.tumblr.com/) for hosting this year's [Les Mis Big Bang](http://lesmis-bigbang.tumblr.com/) and to the most amazingly talented [fixaidea](http://fixaidea.tumblr.com/) who did the [art](http://fixaidea.tumblr.com/post/145406276429/aaaand-heres-my-lesmis-bigbang-picture-to-go/) for this which is just. I n c r e d i b l e. Oh my god.
> 
> (Also there's one character that might be considered an OC but is really just an obscure reference for shits and giggles. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it.)
> 
> So now, let me leave you to this mixture of ridiculousness, fluff and way more angst than orignially intended. Don't say I didn't warn you. Enjoy. ♥

 

 

***

 

“The defendant is found not guilty and is cleared of all charges.”

 

Enjolras kept his smile to a slight, polite upturn of the lips, professional through and through when the judge announced the verdict with a distinctly annoyed expression.

He couldn’t, however, keep the grin from spreading over his face when Mrs Collado, the sixty-year-old lady that was their client, started thanking him, tears of relief shining in her eyes, in rapid Spanish.

Marius translated from her side as best as possible with a wide smile that made him look younger, almost like a teenager, bright-eyed. He seemed glad that he didn't have to do the actual talking, too overwhelmed.

Enjolras nodded along and was in a good enough mood to smile back at Marius. “Make sure she’ll get home and call Courf, will you? He’ll want to know you’ve won your first case today.” He gathered the papers from the table in front of him and handed over the case file.

“Oh, and good job today.”

“I-I didn’t do all that much,” the other man stuttered but he was beaming, blush high on his cheeks what made his freckles stand out even more.

And because Enjolras’s mood wasn’t just good but _great_ , ecstatic even he let himself get carried away into clapping Marius’s shoulder. “You helped, a lot and you’re a good lawyer, just the facts, Marius.”

The truth was that Enjolras wasn’t _totally_ averse to handing out a compliment or two if the occasion called for it. He might be strict and sometimes – often – a bit annoyed by the freshly graduated law student Courfeyrac had practically dragged into their little private law firm but Enjolras could acknowledge hard work, compassion as well as a good moral compass in a person.

He might not even complain about the smell of that ridiculous herbal tea Marius always drank in the office for a couple of days.

Or two days. At maximum. He was in a good mood.

 

“Thank you,” Marius got out after a couple of deep breaths. Then, “Wait, aren’t you coming back to the office?”

Enjolras looked around the emptying courtroom, eyes landing on the plaintiff’s attorney marching away with a very impressive scowl.

He suppressed a laugh and turned back to Marius.

“I’ve got somewhere else to be first. Also, I’m meeting Cosette later as you’re probably aware of.”

He would be lying if he said that the way Marius squirmed under his gaze while at the same time trying and failing to stand up taller wasn’t giving him the tiniest bit of satisfaction.

“Uhm, yes, of course, I mean – She said that. I mean – tell her I said… hi.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Marius. I will tell your fiancé you said _hi_.”

The other man’s blush turned from a light red to crimson.

“Right, yes, thank you. I will – I will see that Mrs Collado gets home alright.”

“You do that.”

“Yes. Right.”

The elderly lady thanked Enjolras again emotionally then she and Marius left while Enjolras slung his bag over his shoulder and went down the other direction of the hallway outside the courtroom, turned to the left at the end of the corridor and headed for the emergency door.

It was left ajar but there was no sign of an alarm.

Of course not.

Enjolras huffed as he pushed the door open and stepped outside onto the fire escape.

 

The man leaning pointedly casual over the railing didn’t even turn around to face him, just kept smoking as if unaffected, perfectly styled black hair not moving a single bit in the chill February breeze.

 

“You know,” Enjolras started, “I would say I’m sorry but, well, I’m really not.”

Montparnasse snorted. “Of course you’re not. I wouldn’t be if I’d won a case like that.”

“But you didn’t.”

He glared at Enjolras. “Oh rub it in, will ya?”

The other man’s broad accent crept into his voice. He was usually good at hiding it, being the ruthless, pristine lawyer with a language that boarded on flowery but sometimes when there weren’t that many people around he didn’t bother.

He stubbed out his finished cigarette and pulled a packet out of his perfectly tailored pinstriped suit glancing over at Enjolras who was biting his lip to stop himself from smiling. He was probably not exactly successful but Montparnasse still held out the packet.

“Want one?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Well, sucks for you, I ain’t giving you one.”

Enjolras did burst out laughing at that but controlled himself rather quickly at the other man’s positively murderous expression.

“Oh come on now, how long are you going to keep sulking?”

“Give me a break, I just lost a case, okay? Let me smoke this cigarette and maybe I’ll be kind enough to grace you with my attention.”

Enjolras inconspicuously tried to hide his smile behind his hand.

Montparnasse just rolled his eyes but eventually did hand him cigarette and lighter and they smoked in silence for the next minutes, the rush of adrenaline and ecstasy slowly subsiding with every intake of breath.

Enjolras knew Combeferre would look at him with that paternal ‘I’m not angry just disappointed’-expression if he knew about him smoking but he didn’t _need_ to know. He probably _would_ know though even if Enjolras had no idea how, he just did.

 

It was slightly creepy.

 

Montparnasse blew out a last breath of smoke with a heavy sigh before he obviously decided to demean himself to talking to Enjolras since he did happen to stand right next to him.

“That newbie with you today’s Cosette’s fiancé?” he asked and there was a smirk playing around the corner of his lips what was as good as a full-on grin in Montparnasse’s case.

“Yes and Marius is a very promising young defence attorney, thank you very much.”

“Really?” Montparnasse asked dryly and Enjolras shrugged.

“… In the making.”

The other man snorted. Somehow there was still something elegant to it. “Didn’t really look quite fit for that chair, don’t you think? A bit… _jittery_.”

“Do I have to remind you that technically you’re not sitting on the right chair either?”

Enjolras had known the other man since their college days and from all he knew Montparnasse was a great lawyer but the place of the accused would probably be as appropriate as that of an attorney.

Not that there would be any evidence to keep him there though.

Montparnasse, however, looked absolutely unaffected by the jibe.

“Nah, I like my place now much better than the alternative. Pay’s better, overall smell of the general surroundings is better. Also, people in this line of work at least know how to dress appropriately.” He let his gaze wander over Enjolras. “Speaking of which, I like the tie. The last one was a fucking disaster, whose idea was that? Jehan’s?”

Enjolras winced. “Courf’s.”

“Of course.” The almost-smile on the other man’s lips turned a little bit wider, just so much one might even be able to call it a real one if stretching the definition a little. “We gonna get drinks tonight?”

They did that, sometimes, when the world was not running a mile per minute and they happened to end up on opposing sides in court once again. Winner’s expense.

“If you think I’m going to order one goddamn Cosmopolitan for you again, _ever_ , you’re wrong,” Enjolras huffed. “Also Cosette has roped me into checking another place for the wedding reception today if I was done before three so….” He trailed off and sighed.

“Should have told me, I could have dragged it out for you in there.”

“So I could have kicked your ass even more? You should be grateful I made it quick.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Mature.”

“You know, you should go meet your ladybug friend. Tell her if she wants to pick something for you to wear, no lime or mint, doesn’t go with your complexion. Also lilac. Remember that Halloween party –“

“Okay, enough,” Enjolras cut him off quickly. “I don’t need to be reminded of things that happened in college, please.”

For the first time, Montparnasse’s mouth curled up into an actual smile. It looked smug and weirdly out of place.

Enjolras continued before the other man could come up with anything else he never wanted to think of again. There were a few things. Young, stupid things.

God, he was getting old at twenty-six.

“I suppose I should really go, she’ll have my head if I’m late.”

“She’s 5 feet tall, Enjolras.”

“She’s terrifying. She’s scarier than you on a _bad_ day.”

“Yeah, tell yourself that the next time I’ll see you in court.”

“You mean the next time I’m going to beat you in court?”

Montparnasse simply flipped him off then, threw his cigarette over the railing and walked away without another word.

“Nice to see you too, Parnasse!” Enjolras called after him.

“Fuck off!”

“Asshole,” he muttered under his breath, caught the door before it could fall shut and unhurriedly walked out of the court house not bothering to hide a triumphant smile anymore.

 

***

 

Enjolras probably _should_ have hurried because after he had managed to get home to his apartment to change before meeting Cosette he was already dangerously close to running late. He quickly put on a different shirt and swapped dress pants for jeans, lost the admittedly not terrible tie but kept the suit jacket and the coat. It was not terribly cold for the end of February in New York, sunny even, but definitely not warm enough to walk around with just a suit jacket. He grabbed his wallet, key and phone and was about to head out again when it started ringing in his hand with an incoming text.

 

 **From Cosette:** _honey, get down here. i’m in front of your house._

 

Enjolras shook his head smiling and hurried to get down the stairs from the third floor – the elevator was working, theoretically… sometimes. But it was probably wiser not to risk anything – and stepped out onto the street.

He spotted Cosette’s dark blue car only a couple of steps away. He had really no idea how she always seemed to get a parking spot like that in New York City in broad daylight.

Maybe some weird, admittedly lousy attempt of karma to make some things right again.

But good knew she deserved it.

When he opened the door and flopped down onto the passenger seat Cosette pushed up her golden-rimmed sunglasses that perfectly matched her pastel blue dress, and gave his attire an appraising once-over.

“My, don’t you look dashing?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and chose to ignore the comment. “Thanks for picking me up, you didn’t have to. I could have met you there.”

Cosette laughed and pulled out of the parking lot. “Oh, that was a completely self-serving idea. I know you probably haven’t slept last night and didn’t want to risk you falling asleep on the subway and be late because let’s be real, you would have been.”

And well, she was probably right about that, not that Enjolras would have admitted it.

“Excuse me, I’m coming right out of a very important, stressful trial against my nemesis.”

“There are no such things as nemeses in the real world, Enjolras.”

“I think we can agree to disagree on that.”

She huffed but in that soft, fond way. “Did you win?”

“Of course.”

“Oh don’t get cocky now or do I have to remind you how Parnasse totally kicked your ass the last time, when was it? Three months ago?”

“He _didn’t_. We got out just fine, it was a compromise beneficial for both parties,” Enjolras insisted stubbornly.

Cosette was very obviously trying not to laugh. “He kicked your ass,” she said again matter-of-factly, amusement in her voice.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “A _little_. Maybe,” he admitted and as an afterthought added, “Do you think I look terrible in lilac?”

“You probably can’t look terrible in anything but I’d still advise against lilac,” she said diplomatically, then glanced at him quickly before turning her eyes back on the road. “Also I don’t even _want_ to know how that topic came up and I’d like to point out I really don’t get that weird friendship-hate-thing the two of you’ve got going on.”

Enjolras scoffed. “There’s no friendship thing. It’s a hate thing. Plus healthy competition maybe. I don’t know if I could be friends with someone who makes me order a goddamn Cosmopolitan every single time. Or wears that much purple. Plus he’s _Parnasse_. He’s like that weird cousin that no one can stand but is still invited for Christmas every year.”

“You have a weird cousin?” Cosette asked amusedly.

“No, not really but I heard that’s a thing.”

“You know that if you don’t have a weird cousin you probably _are_ the weird cousin, right?”

“Hey –”

She cut off any further protest he might have come up with by pulling the car, rather sharply, to the side. “Oh look, we’re here!”

 

Enjolras bit back a curse.

 

God, he really regretted having been talked into this.

Even though it really hadn’t taken that much convincing. If he was honest, it never did.

He would do anything for his friends, as simple as that and Cosette was – in this very rare case, unfortunately – one of his best friends.

 

The building they had come to stop in front of wasn’t exactly incredibly impressive let alone looking like the suitable place for a wedding reception. It looked more like a library or museum with a broad flight of stairs leading up to a dark entrance door surrounded by pillars that should have looked odd next to the high, modern windows on the ground floor but Enjolras knew well, nothing about art or architecture.

 

“Why did you think an art gallery is a fitting option for a wedding reception again?” he asked when they got out of the car. “I mean, it’s not the most classic place, is it?”

Cosette didn’t seem to be bothered by his not exactly ecstatic mood and simply walked around the car, linked her arm with his and pulled him forward.

“Well, I love art.” Enjolras refrained from pointing out that she kind of should because she was working at an _art_ museum. “I thought it might be a good idea because it is individual but not eccentric and exquisite yet tasteful. We're here to take a look, check our options.”

“Right. And what do you need me for?”

“To support the bride? You know since you’re my best friend slash guy who introduced me to my fiancé slash –”

“Okay, okay, I get your point,” he interrupted her with a sigh but he knew he didn’t sound half as annoyed as he wanted to. Or maybe he didn’t really want to. “Let’s get this over with then.”

Cosette laughed and pushed him through the opening door.

 

***

 

To make it absolutely, unmistakably clear again, Enjolras knew _nothing_ about art.

He knew nothing about art to the point where Cosette had to explain to him why it wasn’t such a good idea to ask ‘van who?’ in the MoMA.

So he really didn’t know what to do after Cosette had pulled him with her towards a dark-haired lady waiting for them at the reception desk who had then started to walk them around the gallery. He trailed behind the two enthusiastically chatting women like a – kind of lost – puppy glancing at the paintings hanging on wide, white walls and couldn’t really find anything astonishing about any of them.

However, Cosette beamed when they were lead into the main exhibition room so she seemed happy and that was what mattered.

If she wanted Enjolras to come with her as moral support he was damn well going to make a great moral support.

So he smiled when the woman explained, “We are going to have this exhibition untill the end of May and the flower theme would work perfectly for a spring wedding.”

Ah, flowers. So that was what those were supposed to be. Interesting.

“We have more rooms that can be booked for a wedding reception additionally. They’re usually used for dancing or catering and such, there are many different options. If you follow me, I’d like to show you –“

Enjolras tuned out again after that.

Smiling and nodding politely would probably be enough, especially because he suspected that she had already figured out _he_ wasn’t the one who had to be impressed.

Well… he could at least _look_ like a great moral support then.

The next room was smaller. Cosette was already deep in conversation with their guide again when Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks.

He stopped breathing.

Maybe his heart stopped beating too; maybe _time_ had just stopped, plain and simple.

He knew _nothing_ about art.

He hadn’t even known that photography could have been considered as art but he guessed his only points of contact with that were application photos and Courfeyrac’s snapchat.

But then he didn’t think anything could have prepared him for looking at the pictures in the room.

They were black and white, not even in colours, just light and shadows and contrasts, bright and dark, all nine of them, high size, in thin white frames hanging on white walls.

The picture – and it only took Enjolras a split second to realize – showed shots of Paris in different perspectives and closeness, from a wide stretched scene of rooftops building up to the horizon with chimneys, antennas, gardens to a single opened window to a brazen balcony filled with potted plants, curtains flying in an unseen wind, clothes dangling dangerously loose from the ornate bars held together by shimmering tape at more than one point.

All of them were expressive but they didn’t seem staged, just moments captured, beautiful, raw and authentic.

The one however that made Enjolras step further into the room, closer, was hanging in the left corner, it was the fourth one, a scene of a narrow street, cobblestones glistening from morning light as well as the wetness of rain that must have fallen not long before the picture had been taken. Two rows of old, ageing houses with balconies and still unlit windows lined the street. In front of one the houses closing the door behind him stood a man, in suit and tie, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Dark hair completely dishevelled. He was wearing sneakers instead of dress shoes that would have made his attire perfectly professional, sophisticated.

Like that, it wasn’t.

Like that it was just a young man, going to work early in the morning, bone-tired, probably still half asleep, maybe heading for the closest coffee shop before anything else.

But something in his posture, his stride, the few lines of his profile not covered by unkempt hair made him look fierce, happy even, hopeful in the soft morning light falling onto the street hesitantly.

The picture of that single moment, a second of thousands, millions simply dragged out of the stream of time was the most consummate thing Enjolras had ever seen, like his thoughts and emotions had been captured by a picture put into a frame and for a moment he could feel the sun, smell the wetness on the street and hear the rushing of faraway cars.

“Enjolras?”

Cosette’s voice dragged him back into the reality like a bucket of water emptied over his head. He turned his eyes away from the picture reluctantly and had to blink a couple of times to put the world back into focus.

Obviously it had taken far too long for Enjolras to react – he didn’t know how long, it could have been seconds, minutes, more – because Cosette had already addressed the young woman, again glancing at Enjolras. “Who’s the artist?” she asked casually but there was something like triumph in her eyes. Probably because she saw right through him.

For the first time Enjolras’s attention willingly went to the other woman who answered, “He works under the alias R, tries to stay mostly anonymous but he certainly is one of _the_ rising stars in the field of fine art photography in New York in the moment. He’s come to be more in more in demand in the last say two years. And understandably so, if you ask me, his work is exceptional.”

Cosette hummed in agreement and Enjolras could all but stop himself from _shouting_ out, “Are these for sale?”

His voice might have sounded a little higher than usual if one would get technical but he composed himself quickly enough even though both women looked at him surprised.

Their guide’s expression turned professional almost immediately which was good, professionalism was good, Enjolras could work with that.

“They are. Most of them are sold though and we’re closing this exhibition next week. After that the works will be forwarded to their respective buyers.”

“What about this one?” Enjolras pointed at the fourth picture and the woman frowned.

“I would have to look it up in the books but I don’t think it’s sold yet.”

See, Enjolras was a lawyer.

He was rational, perceptive, resourceful and used to looking at every possible direction or opportunity. His job was one where impulsive actions and indiscretion were mostly uncalled for and he was good, very good at his job.

Yet sometimes he wondered why he had become a lawyer in the first place when he knew that more than often he didn’t have it in him to care about even one of those things, more than often he _acted_ instead of thinking something through, did what he _felt_ was right because he trusted his judgement just as much as carefully laid out plans.

He looked at the picture, higher than himself, simple black and white on the wall in front of him and didn’t think.

“How much?”

 

***

 

“So correct me if I’m wrong but what you’re saying is”, Courfeyrac said around a mouthful of Chinese take out two days later when they were camped up on the table of the conference room in their office at 11pm, “you bought a _painting_?”

Enjolras didn’t know why his cheeks insisted on colouring at that but it kind of annoyed him. He dug his chopsticks into his paper carton and mumbled, “Photography.”

Combeferre chuckled quietly. The assistant doctor had come over to the office after a shift at the hospital most likely to drag both Courfeyrac and Enjolras home but Courfeyrac had firmly insisted on getting dinner together before all leaving to their respective apartments.

 _Why_ they were currently sitting _on_ instead of at the table was a mystery even Enjolras couldn’t explain but he didn’t bother complaining. It was surprisingly comfortable.

“Right, because that does make so much more sense,” Courfeyrac said dryly and before Enjolras could think of a way to protest he continued, “I mean, let’s be real here for a second, you have like zero interest in art, like _none_. And you said you didn’t want to have to do anything with art after Ferre made you watch that van Gogh episode of Doctor Who after the MoMA disaster with Cosette and you cried.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You did. You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a _lawyer._ ”

“Your point?” Courfeyrac grinned and Enjolras rolled his eyes at him.

“Alright,” he shrugged. “I don’t really know anything about art. But I really liked it. It was just – I don’t know.” There were no words to adequately describe just how much he had liked the picture, how much it had moved him. He was usually good with words, great with words. It was kind of a new thing not to be.

Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre wide-eyed.

“Is he speechless?” he stage-whispered and the other man nodded earnestly even though the effect was slightly ruined by the smudge of sauce around the right corner of his mouth.

“I think he is.”

“Fascinating.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Quick, I need to capture this for the posterity!”

Enjolras couldn’t help but roll his eyes again when Courfeyrac pulled out his phone and practically held it into Enjolras’s face.

“Professor Doctor Doctor Combeferre is here with us today as we’re examining the unusual behaviour of the Enjolras. Professor Doctor Doctor Combeferre, how would you explain this?”

Combeferre pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat. “Well, Mister Courfeyrac, it seems to me that the Enjolras has found itself in a situation clearly out of its natural habit which leads to this incredibly peculiar behaviour for its species.”

“Well Professor Doctor Doctor Combeferre, that is truly fascinating!”

Enjolras threw a noodle at Courfeyrac that got stuck between his black curls and made him almost drop his phone with a yelp.

“My hair!” he exclaimed with a look of utter betrayal on his face, clutching his phone to his chest. Enjolras ignored him as he tried to pluck the noodle of his curls and turned to Combeferre glaring.

“You, I expected better of.”

The other man smiled. “Did you?”

Enjolras kept a few more seconds glaring at him then sighed. “No, not really.”

“Hey, why doesn’t he get noodles thrown at him?” Courfeyrac complained and Enjolras shrugged pretending to go back to eating his food only to chuck a noodle right into Combeferre’s face a second later.

Courfeyrac looked incredibly satisfied, that was until the moment the other man used his tongue to get the noodle from his cheek, sucking it into his mouth swiftly.

Courfeyrac’s grin dropped and he swallowed, hard while Enjolras hid his smile behind his food box.

He had positively mastered the art of throwing food of any kind precisely – a necessity if one was friends with Courfeyrac – and he was not averse to use that particular skill from time to time. Not that it helped a lot with his two best friends being ridiculously in love with each other while being equally clueless about said fact.

“So, painting!” Courfeyrac choked out a few seconds later, a little too high, a little too loud.

Combeferre frowned but Enjolras chose to save his other friend mercifully.

“It’s a photography,” he said calmly.

Courfeyrac immediately jumped onto the opportunity. “Right, photography, of course. So where do you want to put it up?”

Enjolras tried not to grin at his pointedly casual tone but the question did catch him off-guard. “I actually have no idea.”

“You didn’t think about that before you know, buying it.”

He couldn’t help but wince a little at the words. “Not really?” he admitted carefully even though it would be more accurate to say, ‘Not at all, really.’

It wasn’t like he had a lot of space in his two bedroom apartment. The living room was mostly packed with books and books and more books and a large window front so there wasn’t much space either. Let alone in the small kitchen or bathroom. He maybe should have thought about that, in retrospect.

“What about over the wardrobe next to the door?” Combeferre suggested and he was right, it was probably the only space in the living room that was not in any way occupied but still there was a problem.

“Yeah, no, that won’t… fit.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow and Courfeyrac stared at him incredulously. “And _how_ big you say is that photography again?”

“About 3 feet broad and high like… 6’ 5’’? Ish?”

Courfeyrac promptly dropped his phone that landed in his noodles.

“Why on earth would you buy a high size?” he exclaimed as if it was a crime to even suggest something like that. “You might be some sleek New York lawyer but your apartment looks like that of an eighty-year-old antique collector, and not the cool kind, the kind boarding on hoarder. Where’s your sense of style? Have I taught you nothing?”

Enjolras bit back the remark that Courfeyrac’s sense of style included fluffy pink Hello-Kitty socks and usually dumping everything in glitter, the more the better.

Instead he settled on, “Okay first, that was _rude_ , second… I might see the problem.”

There was a short, thoughtful silence until Combeferre suggested, “Why don’t you put it up here?”

“Here?” Enjolras frowned.

“Yes, here in the office. I mean, if we’re honest, you _do_ spend a lot of your time here. I mean you’re eating take-out with your friends on the conference room table instead of your couch like you know, normal people.”

“Best friends,” Courfeyrac chimed in matter-of-factly as if that was the point. Combeferre rolled his eyes but he didn’t bother hiding the small, fond smile on his face.

Enjolras looked around.

It was true, he did spend a lot of time in the office, probably more than at his apartment during the last three years since he and Courfeyrac had started up the place fresh out of their internship at a huge prestigious law firm up in Manhattan.

They had worked, relentlessly since then to build up a reputation, to help as many people as they could. Money as such wasn’t exactly the problem.

Enjolras knew that both he and Courfeyrac were privileged as hell when it came to this, he even more so.

But the office, _their_ office, it had always been about the job, their dreams and goals, what they had to do to fulfil their own vision of helping people, bringing the world about.

In his apartment it was just _him_ , not the world, not the lawyer thinking about doing the right, good thing constantly. It was one of the only places he could feel home on his own what he usually only did when he was around his friends. Best friends.

“I don’t know,” he started slowly, “Don’t get me wrong, it just feels kind of… personal.”

And there was a great thing about having best friends that knew you enough not to need to hear what you actually meant but knowing it anyway.

Combeferre’s expression turned gentle and Courfeyrac looked at him fondly even though his voice was teasing smothering the rifts of tension in the air like it was nothing. “Well, I guess then we have to make space on the wall in your bedroom. Which is a good thing, I always thought that pinboard looked way too much like out of a cheap crime flick anyway.”

Enjolras threw another noodle at his head.

 

***

 

About a week later Enjolras stood in front of an insanely large, professionally wrapped and packed up box leaning against the wardrobe next to his entrance door and felt a little bit intimidated all of sudden.

He had called Courfeyrac that he was coming in later as usual for work so he could be home when his ‘purchase’ was being delivered but he hadn’t found the time yet to make enough space to hang it up so it was just… standing there. Definitely winning their silent staring contest.

He was kind of relieved when he heard the key turning and the front door was opened.

“Woah,” Jehan said at the view of the gigantic packet and stepped inside. “What is happening here? It’s like 10 am, you’re not in the office. Am I dreaming? Am I _dead_? Is there a dead body in that thing?”

It spoke a million words that Jehan was more surprised to see Enjolras in his own apartment then Enjolras was surprised to see Jehan.

He had known the poet since his first university days where they had gotten into a conversation after being upset by the exclusiveness of the at that time resident LGBTQA society, Jehan about the narrowed regard of the gender spectrum and Enjolras about the neglecting of the aro/ace scale. They had left with the satisfaction of a dozen shocked pairs of eyes following them and basically had been friends ever since.

Jehan had studied literature and philosophy and had found a way to stay afloat in New York by writing poems and some newspaper articles and generally doing what they loved.

Enjolras had given them a key to his apartment early on, so had Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Cosette and literally everyone Enjolras considered close enough to be called his friends because Jehan’s working schedule was completely non-existent and they liked to take care of everyone’s plants, pets and fridges, often made food or tea before someone came home from a long day of work and basically just spun from one flat to another, sometimes disappearing for a few weeks, staying wherever ‘inspiration embraced’ them which Enjolras didn’t really understand because again – not knowing much about art, literature let alone _inspiration_. But Jehan was quiet, never made a mess and all of his three plants had probably long died a painful death if it wasn’t for them.

“I got a new…fitment,” Enjolras settled on eventually, gesturing at the box.

Jehan raised an eyebrow and pulled off their mustard coloured scarf that clashed horribly with their curly red hair and well, literally everything else they were wearing.

Enjolras had never known a person but Jehan owning more than one poncho. Let alone like… fifteen.

“Alright, _intriguing._ Tell me more. What is it?”

“It’s a photography, like an art… thing. Cosette and I were in this gallery and I just – bought it.”

“Cool,” Jehan said as if that was the most normal thing in the world. “Where do you want to put it up then?”

“I was thinking about the bedroom, on the right. I mean I’d have to put the commode into the guest room and put down the –”

“The pinboard, yes of course,” Jehan chimed in enthusiastically already toeing their shoes off. “Let’s do it then. How much time do you have until you have to be back at work?”

“I called Courf, he knows I’ll be there later today so… a bit?”

“Fabulous!”

Jehan practically jumped in excitement then pulled Enjolras away from the package into the other room before he knew what happened.

With Jehan’s help, they had cleared the space on the wall within half an hour – Enjolras was over and over again startled by the strength of a person several inches smaller than him even though he had known Jehan for years and seen them fight and get out completely unharmed against guys literally twice their size. They had put up the picture in another half an hour and Enjolras didn’t ask how Jehan knew how to do that or why on earth they would carry around a drilling machine in their handbag – which was more the size of a valise. He honestly didn’t want to know what else was in there.

He left Jehan to redecorating the space then because he really didn’t know anything about that either and they were already gushing about the picture and imagery and inspiration and Enjolras had three pro bono cases on his desk and a red-haired, antsy defence attorney to train waiting for him in the office so he really needed to get back to work.

He thanked Jehan, let himself be kissed on the cheek and left the apartment with Jehan in it humming thoughtfully under their breath.

 

***

 

An evening about a week later Enjolras didn’t really remember how he had gotten home that day.

He had been bone-tired after staying at the office not only one day but three days in a row without sleeping more than eight hours in between, at maximum, until Combeferre had called and literally ordered him to go home which he probably wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t been so tired and a little bit scared of his best friend.

He obviously hadn’t bothered to change into pyjamas because he was still wearing his dress shirt but at least he had taken off his pants and shoes before falling into bed.

There was a distinct returning memory of almost falling asleep on the subway in broad daylight. But apparently he had still made it home and even managed to sleep a couple of hours because it was dark outside by now.

The only light shining into his window came from the streetlights and illuminated the room almost eerily. The photography on his wall suddenly looked like a night scene, the glistening cobblestones like stars lying on the street.

He felt like he hadn’t slept all that long what left the question, why on _earth_ was he awake?

Enjolras’s phone rang loudly from his nightstand and okay, that was why.

His mind considered the possibilities of who could be calling him in the middle of the night, or late evening or whatever time it was on a _Tuesday_ , as if Tuesdays weren’t bad enough already but in the end he decided on just taking the call if only to make the noise stop.

“Hello? Who’s there?” he got out, words clinging together sleepily.

“Enjolras, thank god you’re picking up, I’m so sorry for waking you up, probably waking you up,” a voice started speed-talking immediately even though that wasn’t what took Enjolras by surprise, it was more the fact that he hadn’t at all expected Bossuet to be on the other end of the line.

Bossuet who was talking a mile in a minute now, too fast for Enjolras’s still half asleep brain to process.

“I’m so glad, you have no idea. I need your help, well not I personally, well in a way, not really, I mean –”

“Bossuet,” Enjolras interrupted him because his head hurt and this really had no sense if he had a hard time understanding even one word of what the other man was saying. “Just, I’m here, okay? Calm down.”

In the second the other man took a deep breath, several, Enjolras couldn’t help but start to worry.

It was always a nice thing to hear from Bossuet who had studied together with Courfeyrac and him, for a while at least until, long story short, he had half dropped, half got himself kicked out of law school which had kind of brought Marius along. It was all very dramatic, in Courfeyrac’s opinion.

They had never lost contact even if Bossuet had moved into another part of the town and times were busy and stressful for them, because Bossuet simply wasn’t the person you wanted to lose contact with. He was cheerful and witty and selfless to a point that had Enjolras wondering sometimes if he was even _human_ with all that kindness.

Hearing him upset, frantic and most of all asking for help himself… well, it seemed appropriate to worry.

“Okay.” Bossuet exhaled slowly and Enjolras waited. “A friend of mine, he was arrested, well, not arrested but they took him in for questioning and they think he _killed_ –” he broke off at that taking another breath. “He called me because he needs a lawyer, he called _me_ as a _lawyer_ , Enjolras, which is the stupidest thing he could have done because I am _not_ a lawyer –” his tone had grown more frantic again but Enjolras was wide awake by now. “And I don’t know what to do, I have no idea –”

“Tell me what happened,” Enjolras interrupted him calmly if only to give the other man a second to breathe because he sounded dangerously close to hyperventilating. He was already out of bed, trying to get into his pants while keeping the phone on his ear.

“I don’t really know much, he, he’s an artist and his agent, do artists have agents, I don’t know, she was shot in a gallery where they’d just opened an exhibition. Someone called the police when they heard the shots and they have taken him in for questioning but he didn’t do it Enjolras, I _know_ he didn’t do it, she was his friend and I’ll, I’ll vouch for him or something, I don’t care but it wasn’t him –“

“It’s alright, I believe you, okay?”

The sigh of relief on the other end of the line made Enjolras’s fingers tighten around the phone in his hand.

Of course he had had to be right to worry.

“If they haven’t arrested him yet they don’t have enough evidence against him which means it will be fine. For now,” he said insistently and it seemed to calm Bossuet down at least a little, he still sounded shaken though.

“Okay.”

“What’s the name of your friend?”

The other man’s voice was quiet, incredibly unlike him when he answered, “Grantaire. His name is Grantaire.”

Enjolras breathed in, changing the phone into the other hand as he pulled on his jacket. “Grantaire, alright. Now tell me where he is.”

 

***

 

Enjolras was only mildly surprised when he arrived at the precinct and almost ran into Bahorel as he rounded the corner from the parking space to the main entrance.

He had taken his car which was a rarity. He hated driving, he hated driving in New York, he hated driving in the night and he especially hated driving in New York after midnight.

“Woah there,” Bahorel grabbed Enjolras’s shoulders firmly to keep him from falling over. “What are you doing here? I didn’t call you. Did I call you?”

“Thanks. No, you didn’t,” he said as he had found his balance again.

Bahorel had lasted an even shorter time than Bossuet in law school, then decided to become a cop because he could ‘punch more and shit’ while helping and protecting people.

He always called Enjolras and Courfeyrac whenever there was some innocent or wrongly treated soul who needed help or couldn’t afford a lawyer at the precinct even though he was technically not allowed to but neither he nor Enjolras nor Courfeyrac were the types to care particularly about rules.

Sure, they were lawyers, laws and rules were necessary but he knew that none of them would ever hold over humanity and justice.

“So you actually managed to find a client on your own?” Bahorel grinned down at him and Enjolras wasn’t a small man by any means but he probably still looked like a porcelain doll in comparison to the 6’6’’ tall broad shouldered police officer.

He rolled his eyes. “We do get out own clients, thank you very much. But this actually isn’t one of them. Again. Bossuet called me.”

“Bossuet? Really? What does he have to do with this?”

“A friend of his is apparently a murder suspect.”

Bahorel frowned. “A friend of Bossuet’s is a murder suspect? Didn’t think I’d ever say that sentence. Is this about the artist guy?”

“Yeah. Can you tell me something about it?”

“You know I’m technically not allowed to, right?”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and pointedly looked around the deserted parking area.

The other man grinned and shrugged. “Fair point. Well, I wasn’t the one to take him in but I was still there because I had to finish some stupid paper bullshit. They’re wound up tight, I tell ya. Obviously don’t have enough evidence to keep him in. No murder weapon, no direct witnesses.”

“Why did they bring him in then?”

“Oh, the usual, you know. No alibi, kind of motive, wrong skin colour.” His face hardened. “Javert won’t do anything about it when the Captain’s around, as usual.”

As a detective Javert was higher up the ladder then Bahorel and they did not agree on a lot of things. Enjolras had had his fair share of disputes with the older detective as well, to put it lightly.

“You think he did it? The artist guy?”

Bahorel shrugged again. “No idea, only got a glimpse on him. Maybe, maybe not. Probably not. Poor guy looked shaken as hell.”

Enjolras nodded carefully. “I’ll better get going then, see for myself.”

Bahorel clapped his back. “You do that. And kick Javert’s ass while you’re at it, will ya? Old man’s been driving me nuts lately.”

Enjolras shouldered his bag and grinned. “Don’t I always?”

 

***

 

“Good evening, Detective.”

The dark skinned man looked up from the meticulously stacked pile of documents on his meticulously organised desk. When his eyes landed on Enjolras his face, framed by meticulously combed back hair, took on an expression that could only be described as pained.

“What are you doing here?”

Enjolras could have sworn there was a new strand of gray in his hair every time he showed up at the precinct.

Coincidence probably.

He put on his most professional, charming smile that hopefully covered the fact that he had totally slept in the shirt he was wearing, hadn’t showered in two days and the only things digesting in his stomach were three coffees, double-shot espresso, and a granola bar.

“I’m here to see my client.”

Javert looked like he was either about to snap the pen in his hands in half or start crying. He closed his eyes for a moment as if he could wish Enjolras away so he’d be gone when he opened them again but Enjolras didn’t do him the favour. He didn’t seem all too surprised though when he was still there.

“Who’s your client?” he asked on a deep sigh like being in a five feet radius of Enjolras who hadn’t even said more than to sentences by then was already draining.

“Mr. Grantaire,” Enjolras answered firmly, leaving no doubt of his purpose even though the name felt unfamiliar on his tongue.

Javert sighed heavier then stood up without another word nodding at Enjolras to follow him.

He didn’t roll his eyes at the detective because he was a professional. He did make a face behind his back as soon as he had turned around though.

He followed Javert to one of the interrogation rooms, hurrying to keep up with his fast steps – and he would have sworn he was doing that on purpose just to get Enjolras exhausted. He had just time to take a deep, calming breath before Javert opened the door.

Enjolras could only catch a glimpse of the backside of head of curly black hair before the man turned around and Enjolras’s gaze was caught by surprised, distressed eyes of a colour that could be called neither green nor blue but something indefinable in between surrounded by long dark lashes, just as dark as the young man’s curls. He looked taken aback by Enjolras’s arrival but composed himself so quickly that Enjolras wondered if he had only imagined it. He appeared dismissive, arms crossed in front of his chest but most of all he looked tired, as tired as Enjolras felt, probably even more so and behind that tiredness, the dark rings under his eyes, the slumped posture, was something akin to sadness, easily to miss but Enjolras didn’t.

They say it takes approximately a tenth of a second to make up your mind about someone.

Enjolras looked into the man’s eyes and decided that he really did believe Bossuet, when he had said he wasn’t a murderer.

He turned to Javert and said firmly, harshly, “As Mister Grantaire’s lawyer I will make sure he won’t say a single word from now on before he has talked to me. You have no solid evidence against him. You can keep him here for 48 hours and then what? I’m sure my client will agree to cooperate with you if you don’t treat him like he’s already in a courtroom. We don’t have to make this ugly.”

The detective’s left eye twitched. He marched to the table, Enjolras followed him keeping a safe distance, and roughly opened the file lying on the table top.

“We have a _murder_ case here,” he hissed and from the corner of his eye, Enjolras could see the young man flinching just a little.

He silently, carefully pushed the photos apart and didn’t let any emotion show on his face at the sight of the crime scene.

The woman in a dark blue dress, high heels and blazer lay in a pool of fresh looking blood, dark red and splattered widely, making her hair stick together.

She might have been young, pretty even, it was heard to tell, there wasn’t enough of her face left to make a judgement.

Enjolras looked up into Javert’s eyes and his voice was cold. “I am very well aware that this is a murder case, detective. But my words are not revoked unless you have actually valuable information?”

The older man’s jaw clenched but he managed to stay calm and composed and Enjolras almost admired him for that. “Miss Floréal Cortot, your client's _agent_ was found five hours ago in a gallery that contains a large amount of your client’s work after the caretaker heard multiple shots and alarmed the police around 7pm right before the gallery was supposed to close. He also stated that Miss Cortot and your client had been involved in a rather loud argument earlier that day. He was the last person she was seen with.”

“So basically what you’re telling me is that you have no solid evidence, no murder weapon, no direct witnesses and no motive but an argument between an agent and her client? Is this correct, detective? Or did I miss something?”

“Your client has no alibi. He claims to have been at home. Alone.”

Enjolras raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “From what I’ve heard, you said the crime happened around 7pm. Does being at home at a reasonable time on a Tuesday evening on one's own make people murderers nowadays? _I_ had a very stressful and not what you would call silent work day and went home on my own. Does that make a suspect too?”

“You are also not afflicted with a homicide victim.”

“I don’t keep tabs on every person I’m afflicted with so how do I know for sure if I am? Can you know for sure if I am?”

Javert pressed his lips together tightly and looked so annoyed that Enjolras felt distinctly proud. He let out a long breath but didn’t say a word.

Enjolras allowed himself a small smile. “Right. I didn’t think so. Now, if there’s nothing more you can tell me I would like to take my client with me. He’ll be ready for your questions tomorrow. It’s late.  I’m sure we could all use some sleep.”

The other man looked like he seriously debated telling him to just go to hell but he eventually settled on, “Fine. Take your client with you. He’s a suspect in a murder investigation, he better not leaves the city. Be back for questioning tomorrow at ten or this will get, how did you put it, ugly.”

Enjolras _had_ considered letting him off easy before but well, that was not going to happen.

He nodded at the young man staring at him with wide blue-green eyes. He stood up from his chair slowly as if he couldn’t really believe he was allowed to then followed Enjolras.

Javert escorted them to the elevator that led to the exit. When the doors glided open Enjolras turned around with a smile before stepping inside.

“It was nice to see you again, Detective. It makes me glad that I don’t have to worry about _you_ being falsely accused of murder because you’re home on your own. Give Cosette’s father my regards, will you? I look forward to seeing him at the wedding.”

The look of utter shock on the detective’s rapidly colouring face was the best thing that had happened to Enjolras the whole day, oh, who was he kidding, the whole _week_.

The doors glided shut blocking the view on the stunned man and Enjolras couldn’t help but break out laughing as soon as they had shut.

“Did you see his _face_?”

After he recovered somewhat, still shaking with few repressed laughs, he looked up and the other man’s shocked expression sobered him up immediately.

He tried not to show the slight – only slight, okay? – embarrassment at his outburst and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

The man’s expression changed from pure shock into shocked awe. “That. was _amazing_ ,” he said slowly and Enjolras couldn’t help but smile. He also might have blushed a little bit at the awestruck tone, not that he would admit it.

The other man seemed to remember the situation they were in because his strong dark brows furrowed if not unfriendly. “So, I kind of remember calling Bossuet but well, I am pretty sure you’re not Bossuet. Not that I’m complaining, that was a quite a scene you made there.” His voice was a little bit hoarse, soft but deep.

“Bossuet called me,” Enjolras explained. “He said you needed a lawyer and well, I _am_ a lawyer. Bossuet is not.”

The other man snorted but didn’t press for more explanation. Instead he looked at Enjolras scrutinizing with an intensity in his eyes that made it hard to concentrate on anything but breathing calmly.

“And you’re not afraid to be alone with a stranger who happens to be a suspect in a murder investigation?” He probably tried to sound sarcastic but in Enjolras’s ears he just sounded bitter.

“No, I’m not,” he replied seriously. When the man’s frown only deepened he continued, “Bossuet said you didn’t do it. He’s a friend of mine, I believed him before I came here, and I believe him now.”

“Just like that?”

“I like to believe I have a good intuition when it comes to people.”

“Huh.”

Enjolras had expected more confusion but the other man looked at him with an expression of sceptic disbelief. “Honestly, you kind of had me fooled in there, what with the big, ruthless lawyer act you put up there. You’re trying to convince me you’re what? Actually a good person?”

Enjolras didn’t know if that was supposed to be offensive but his tone suggested more of a challenge, a testing of boundaries, bluntness as defence mechanism.

“I’m sorry for making the wrong impression,” he said with a small smile. He didn’t note that it wasn’t _all_ an act. He knew that the ruthlessness had to be part of the job from time to time and he didn’t shy away from it if necessary.

His answer, however, seemed to be the right one because the other man stopped looking at Enjolras as if he was trying to figure out the deepest secrets of his soul and even relaxed just a little.

He sighed and it sounded as tired as he looked. “Well, likewise. I probably wouldn’t get an award for best first impression either considering...” He trailed off gesturing unenthusiastically at their surroundings then his eyes flickered back to Enjolras and he held out his hand.

“I’m Grantaire, by the way.” He actually managed a smile, more of a smirk that for some reason was terribly distracting. It took Enjolras a second longer than usual to take the offered hand, long, delicate but strong fingers.  

“Enjolras,” he introduced himself and didn’t let go of Grantaire’s hand. Instead he looked into the other man’s eyes and said earnestly, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Grantaire’s breath hitched. He bit down on his lower lip before he nodded curtly. “Thank you.” His voice was rougher and he seemed to have drifted off a little when he added more quietly, “No one thought of saying that before.” Then he seemed to realize he was still holding on to Enjolras’s hand and let it go quickly.

Enjolras couldn’t help but stretch his fingers once he had dropped his hand to his side.

“I’m sorry,” he said again and meant it.

Grantaire sighed even heavier. “It’s not your fault. But thanks, anyway.”

The elevator came to stop with an annoying ping-sound and the doors slid open.

Enjolras stepped forward and the other man followed him until they were back outside, the chilly air a relief after the stuffy rooms of the precinct and the elevator. He really wouldn’t have said no to a shower right then. Or something to eat. Or sleep.

Next to him Grantaire took a deep breath. “I suppose it’s against my grounding to go somewhere to get drunk off my ass?”

Enjolras bit back the comment that he looked a lot more in need of sleep instead of any intoxicating substances because the man most likely had a terrible enough day already without his rigorous remarks.

“I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Of course,” Grantaire huffed but he didn’t seem to have expected anything else. “And you're my lawyer so I suppose I should listen to your advice.”

Enjolras smiled against his will. It was surprisingly difficult not to. “I’m glad we established that.”

The other man shrugged. “Well, I guess it’s what I pay you for.”

“You’re not paying me.”

“What?”

Enjolras shook his head. “You’re not paying me. Bossuet asked me to help you and I will.”

Grantaire didn’t look convinced. In fact, he was mustering Enjolras as if he was going to turn into some sort of a monster that was going to attack him any second.

“Bossuet and I went to law school together,” Enjolras started to explain, “together with two -,” he stopped himself and corrected, “ _one_ other friend of mine” - ‘and my nemesis’ but Montparnasse was a whole other story - “and we didn’t stop being friends just because he got himself kicked out. I suppose you know the story. But he’s the reason I could hire a quite promising lawyer who when one of my best friends met him turned out to be the love of her life. This, in consequence, makes another best friend of mine the happiest man alive because he can be best man at the wedding. And technically none of it would have happened without Bossuet. Plus he’s one of the most generous and selfless people I know and the one time he asks me to do something for him I am not going to be egoistic and say no.”

Grantaire stared at him, the same disbelieving awe unintentionally creeping back into his expression and it made Enjolras feel like the collar of his shirt was too tight all of sudden. He didn’t look away though, not until the other man’s lips curled up into a lopsided smile

“I can’t believe I got that one lawyer in New York with a moral code.”

Enjolras automatically rolled his eyes. “I’m not the only one with a moral code.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Not every lawyer is a cruel, selfish asshole.”

“Maybe,” the other man shrugged with one shoulder. “But people are.”

Disbelief didn’t really cover Enjolras’s feeling at the blatant cynicism. “Are you serious?”

Grantaire’s expression darkened. “Somebody just murdered my friend by blowing half of her face off. Excuse me if my faith in humanity is not at its peak right now.”

Enjolras winced. “I’m sorry.”

The other man ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “No, it’s alright, I’m…,” he breathed in and continued, “I’m just kind of stressed out right now.”

And wasn’t that understandable.

“Do you want me to bring you home?” Enjolras asked carefully to not make another tactless mistake. He was usually good with people. Talking to people, listening, convincing, charming even. Consoling was a whole other matter and one he would rather count to Courfeyrac’s areas of expertise. It was difficult consoling someone you hadn’t even known for more than fifteen minutes. At most.

“I… I really don’t feel like going home right now,” Grantaire said tiredly and again Enjolras really couldn’t blame him. Of course he didn’t want to go home. The last time he had been at home on his own he had probably been picked up by cops that weren’t necessarily too friendly if their name wasn’t Bahorel.

Usually Enjolras would take a new client to the office, sit down, talk. But he was stressed out and tired and it was in the middle of th _e night._ And for some reason he couldn’t help but feel that an office environment wouldn’t be the best possible place for consoling someone who had lost a friend to a brutal murder a couple of hours ago.

Enjolras breathed in and made a decision.

“Come on, we can go to my place.”

Grantaire frowned. “Is that usual procedure?”

“Not really,” Enjolras shrugged not bothering to make up some more professional sounding excuse, “but it’s in the middle of the night and I have a guest room, the office does not. So.” He shrugged again.

Grantaire muttered something that sounded a lot like “How are you even real?” under his breath before he cleared his throat “That would be great if it’s not too much of a bother.”

“It’s really not, don’t worry,” Enjolras hurried to insist.

He led the other man to his car relieved that he didn’t drove often so there weren’t any embarrassing things inside like the considerable collection of empty Red Bull cans and half the assortment of a candy shop in Courfeyrac’s old green Ford. Not that Courfeyrac would be embarrassed about any of that.

The radio started to sound quietly through the car when Enjolras pulled out of the parking space. Grantaire leaned his head against the window and when Enjolras glanced at him the next time his eyes were closed, his face half buried under black, unruly curls, the lights of the city washing over him as they passed house by house.

Enjolras looked away from the man’s face, more relaxed in his sleep, calm, peacefully beautiful even. He shoved the thought away and concentrated on the street in front of him and not falling asleep at the wheel.

 

***

 

Enjolras was glad he had a parking space rented not far from his apartment so he didn’t need to drive around the blog for half an hour before maybe, possibly finding one close by.

He felt bad about having to wake Grantaire but it couldn’t be the most comfortable position to sleep in anyway, pressed against the window, legs awkwardly squished into the too small footwell.

And great, now he was staring like a creep, great.

In the end he didn’t have to do anything because as soon as the car stopped Grantaire tensed opening his eyes slowly. He looked confused for a second before his eyes fell on Enjolras and he sat up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled, his voice rough and brushed some of the curls absentmindedly out of his face. They looked really soft.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “It’s okay.”

They walked to Enjolras’s apartment taking the stairs because of the possibly deadly elevator what even managed to get another crooked smile turning up Grantaire’s lips which Enjolras counted as at least a small success in the matters of consoling.

He stopped however when he fished out his keys from the bottom of his bag.

“I uhm, well I didn’t expect company,” he said and winced internally but forced himself to continue, “So yeah just, don’t wonder if it’s a bit messy in there.”

Grantaire chuckled quietly, a sound that might have made Enjolras miss the keyhole on the first try. He really needed to sleep.

Mentally trying to remember how many empty cups had been standing on his coffee table when he had left the apartment the last time, he switched on the light and couldn’t help but smile when he stepped inside.

There were no empty cups on the table or anywhere else, the usually scattered books were piled up next to the sofa with neatly arranged pillows and a comforter that he didn’t even remember owning but fitted perfectly into the warm colour scheme. A vase of fresh flowers stood on the table and the whole room was warm despite the cold temperatures outside and smelled incredibly good, a little bit like honey maybe. The huge carton the picture had been brought in was stacked next to the door so there was no danger of falling over it. He hadn’t even realized any of this when he had come home earlier but a few hours of sleep seemed to be enough to get a general attentiveness to your surroundings.

He was going to have to build Jehan a shrine or something like that. They deserved it.

“That’s what you call ‘messy’, huh?” Grantaire asked from behind him sounding amused.

Enjolras let out a short laugh and pulled off his coat. “A friend of mine has a key. They’re looking after things when I’m...” When he was what? Working himself to exhaustion in the office? Probably not the best thing to share. “Indisposed,” he settled on eventually.

“And they won’t mind you bringing strangers home with you in the middle of the night?” Grantaire asked as he toed off his shoes which was… surprisingly considerate.

“They would probably make a celebratory cake,” Enjolras huffed and horrified realized what he had said too late. “I mean… uhm, I don’t usually” - great, absolutely great, this was _not_ making it better - “I’m kind of too busy for… things.” He grimaced as soon as he had managed to get out the words and was positively sure he was blushing in a decidedly unlike-Enjolras-more-like-Marius kind of way.

Talking should really not be that difficult. He was _good_ at talking, he wasn’t getting… _flustered._

“ _Things_?” Grantaire repeated dryly with a raised eyebrow that disappeared under his curls looking like he was trying very hard not to smile at Enjolras’s awkwardness. He appreciated the effort.

“I’m being a bad host,” he decided to change the subject unceremoniously. “Do you want something to drink? I could make some tea if you want to.”

“Do you have something stronger?” The other man asked flippantly but it sounded put on.

The look Enjolras gave him in return was enough to make Grantaire hold up his hands. “Okay, okay, I get it. No alcohol when you’re grounded.”

“You’re not grounded.”

“If you say so,” he shrugged. “Mister fancy lawyer.”

Enjolras tried his best to ignore him.

He walked into the kitchen and almost mechanically got two cups and Jehan’s self-made tea that they stored in every of their friends’ apartments out of the cupboard and listened to the rising noise of the kettle. He knew he was supposed to think of a strategy, questions to ask Grantaire but he couldn’t keep one of the fleeting thoughts for long and slowly he was beginning to think it wasn’t just the sleep deprivation. He had survived longer without sleep and that not only in his college days. Mostly with an unquestionably unhealthy amount of coffee though.

“Get a grip Enjolras,” he mumbled under his breath after he almost poured hot water over his hands and amazing, he had already resorted to talking to himself when another person was right in the next room.

When he came back into the living room Grantaire was standing in front of the carton with a thoughtful, interested expression. Enjolras realized for the first time that he was wearing a dark blue hoodie that looked like it was at least three sizes too big over simple black jeans. One of his socks was a lighter shade of gray than the other with white polka dots. It was oddly adorable.

He set the cups on the coffee table a little bit more forcefully than necessary.

Grantaire turned around. “What was in there?” He asked pointing his thumb at the giant carton before he sat down next to Enjolras on the sofa. “Thank you,” he mumbled when Enjolras offered him on of the cups, his long fingers immediately wrapping around the warmth.

“A picture,” he offered. “ Photography actually.”

Grantaire’s eyes lit up and Enjolras was so surprised to see the genuine excitement on the other man’s face that he almost choked on his tea.

Then he remembered that he was an _artist_ and even though no one had mentioned what kind of artist it explained the change in his expression. It made him look younger and it hit Enjolras that he didn’t even know how old the other man was and yet he was incredibly relieved to see some of the tension disappearing as he looked around in the room curiously.

“Doesn’t look like the place for a photography that size,” he said letting his eyes glide over the filled walls of the room.

“I know,” Enjolras admitted, “But I also usually don’t buy art or well, have any interest in art, really.”

Luckily Grantaire didn’t seem to resent him for that. He looked even more intrigued. “But that one was different?”

“Yes,” he said because it was as simple as that. “My friend Cosette, she’s getting married and we wanted to check out that gallery for the wedding reception in a gallery me along. And I saw that one… and I bought it.”

“You sound surprised,” Grantaire noticed and Enjolras couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

“I don’t usually buy random things that they don’t really need. Never really. So it was kind of a surprise for me but,” he changed the subject before he sounded even more like a lame person, “it’s not that interesting.”

The other man didn’t look convinced instead he looked at Enjolras with a newfound curiosity that made something in his brain slither to a halt. He cleared his throat.

“Anyway, what about you?”

“About me?” Grantaire repeated skeptically, his eyebrows drawing together.

Enjolras considered if he should just start with the obvious ‘well, you’re a murder suspect, what’s that about?’ but decided on, “You’re an artist, aren’t you? At least that’s what Bossuet told me.”

“Also a dead woman was found in a gallery with my work.”

And people told Enjolras _he_ was blunt.

“Yes,” he simply said and waited.

Grantaire bit down on his lip, his fingers tightened around the cup in his hand but he leaned back into the sofa cushions and sighed eventually. “Do you want the long or the short version?”

“I want the version where you tell me the things that have relevance to this case. If you leave something out I can’t take it into consideration and it could only incriminate you further.” Business talk was something Enjolras was good at. It was a safe field better than art or house guests and he felt himself gaining confidence at the standard procedure. Even though the thought that he had something like a standard procedure for conversing with murder suspects seemed slightly morbid.

“Further?” Grantaire repeated sharply, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re a suspect in a murder investigation. That’s a fact right now. We just have to make sure you don’t get arrested.”

“What about proving my innocence?”

“That comes later, first we need to keep you out of jail, it’s much more difficult to prove your innocence from inside a courtroom.”

Grantaire winced and Enjolras felt bad for a moment fearing he might have been too harsh but the other man collected himself quickly, the muscles in his jaw tense.

“Right,” he said and took a deep breath. “Floréal was one of the first people I met when I came to New York,” he started. “We met in a bar and we started talking and I showed her some pictures. I’m a photographer, I suppose the correct term would be fine-art photographer but that just sound hella pretentious if you ask me.”

Enjolras didn’t really have an opinion on that but he was surprised to hear that Grantaire was a _photographer_ as well. He would have probably suspected him to be a ‘regular’ painter or even sculptor with hands like this. Not that he was paying an extraordinary amount of attention on the other man’s hands.

He followed Grantaire’s fingers with his eyes as they ran through his hair once more, it seemed to be sign of nervousness, tension when he did that, before he continued, “It turned out she was an artist agent and liked what I did so she forwarded my pictures to a huge, renowned gallery uptown. They liked them, they exhibited them and from the first pay check I got I hired her as my official agent. That was about three years ago, give or take a month or two. And it’s not _unusual_ that we fight. I mean… it _wasn’t_ ,” he corrected himself, his voice shaking slightly. “It wasn’t unusual for us to fight. She was feisty, hard-edged, didn’t take shit from anyone and made sure none of her clients would drown in alcohol or self-pity, I suppose that’s kind of an artist thing.” He shrugged. “Guess I never made it that easy for her but we both knew that I needed it when she got harsh. She always said I was too stubborn for my own good. Something we had in common I guess.” His smile was forced, the corners of his lips were quivering but he tried to hide it by taking a sip of the tea.

Enjolras had forgotten that he was holding a cup in his own hands.

“Yesterday,” Grantaire continued talking more to the tea than to Enjolras, “it was the same, some petty reason when she was actually just trying to encourage me. I haven’t been … at my best lately.” He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair again. Absentmindedly as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it, he pulled his knees up to his chest balancing the cup carefully on top. “I have this new exhibition and they messed up the order of the pictures and I said it didn’t really matter but she didn’t want to let it go. Not because she was perfectionist, I mean she was but that wasn’t the reason. She just thought I didn’t care enough and she is, _was,_ dammit -.” He took a deep, trembling breath. “She was right, as always. I was stubborn. It got loud. I left. Thought about going to a bar or something but I ran into some guy who spilled his coffee all over me and I went home, stayed there because I knew she would have been even more pissed if had gotten drunk somewhere. I was going to apologize the next day, it always went like that. Shouting, brooding, coffee and pancakes in the morning. Well. Didn’t exactly work out.” The last words were so quiet Enjolras almost didn’t understand them.

They sat in silence for a while, maybe seconds, maybe minutes as he tried to process what Grantaire had said while the other man stared into his tea.

“She was my friend.” He was the first one to speak up again, loudly so that Enjolras almost startled. “She wasn’t just my agent. She took me to her family for Christmas the first year I got here so I didn’t have to be alone for fuck’s sake. She had a cat, a fucking demon of a cat that I fed every time she was out of town even though it despises me because she was my friend. And I was going to get coffee with her in the morning.”

“Was she,” Enjolras started carefully, “More than a friend?”

Grantaire huffed in a way that was probably supposed to sound like a laugh but came out as more of a sob. “No, she wasn’t. I mean, we tried that like once very early on but we both figured out fairly quickly that it wasn’t going to work out. Like she was so far out of my league.” He shrugged with an absent smile that he didn’t even seem to notice and made Enjolras’s heart clench with sympathy. “Neither of us was bitter about it. In the end it wasn’t much more than a joke, a thing you laugh about from time to time, no big deal.” The smile dropped from his face when he seemed to realize once again that there was no present tense anymore, just past.

“I’m sorry for having to ask these questions,” Enjolras said.

Obviously getting better at hiding his surprise Grantaire only stared at Enjolras over the rim of his tea cup for a few seconds this time before he replied, “You’re just doing your job.”

Despite his words Enjolras was sure he didn’t only imagine the hint of bitterness in his voice.

“I know but it’s still invasive so I apologize.”

“It’s alright, I get it. Ask what you want to know.” His understanding - even though it sounded more like resignation but Enjolras was going to take what he got - was a relief. It didn’t make Enjolras feel better about that part of the job though, it never really did.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek. There was a question on the tip of his tongue that had been taking shape in his head for almost the whole duration of their talk. He was almost sure to know the answer but it would probably be even _more_ invasive to just assume without even bothering to ask.

“Do you suffer from depression?” He kept his voice carefully devoid of any judgement or expectation, just like that, a professional question.

If Grantaire was surprised he didn’t show it. “I’m not on medication right now,” he said a little roughly which was all answer Enjolras needed to hear.

He nodded and dropped the subject. He wondered if Grantaire looked back into the cup, dark curls falling into his face so Enjolras wouldn’t see the gratitude in his eyes.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Floréal?”

“I’m not her only client,” Grantaire shrugged not looking up. “She was not afraid to call people out on their shit but only ever for their best which was what eventually happened in the end. She had a bunch of connections here and there but I can’t think of anyone who-,” he stopped, his voice was shaking slightly and took another deep breath before continuing. “She didn’t have a boyfriend or something for at least a year and it wasn’t a bad break-up, she had a couple of work friends but no arguments that I would know of. I mean it doesn’t make sense, does it? For anyone to just, I mean it wasn’t a heist, no one talked about anything being stolen. But I just can’t think of someone who’d - who would do this to her, who would do something so brutal, I don’t understand -”

“Hey,” Enjolras interrupted him firmly. Grantaire’s mouth fell shut and when he looked up, his eyes blue and green and wide, it was like Enjolras’s body acted on its own will. He leaned forward and put a hand gently, grounding on Grantaire’s upper arm. The other man frowned but didn’t pull back.

“You don’t have to understand what’s going on in the head of the one who did that,” Enjolras insisted. “They’re not your responsibility. And what they did wasn’t your fault. I know you want to know who did it and why but as hard as it sounds you _have to_ focus on yourself right now or it will only get worse from here on.”

“That’s quite the selfish thing to do, isn’t it?” Grantaire said and it was a whisper, quiet and bitter, not a question and more of an absently voiced thought not really meant to be said out loud. His eyes had drifted to a point over Enjolras’s shoulder. He squeezed the other man’s arm once, just a little what made Grantaire’s attention snap back to him.

“It’s a _necessary_ thing,” he said without doubt. “And I know I didn’t know Floréal but from what you told me and from the two or three things I am lucky enough to know about friendship I’m sure he wouldn’t let her friend go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. So help me do _my_ job. And let the police do theirs.”

He dropped his hand and Enjolras wasn’t sure who was the first to look away but eventually Grantaire bit down on his lip and nodded. “Okay.”

Enjolras took a sip from his tea that was lukewarm by then and frankly disgusting. He stopped himself from making a face and ignored the thought that the fabric of Grantaire’s worn out pullover had felt incredibly soft under his fingers.

He knew that he should go on with the usual procedure, ask more questions and he usually would have, without second thought but he couldn’t help but think it wouldn’t do any good at that point of time. Probably only worse.

It was in the middle of the night and Grantaire already looked like he was either about to fall asleep or break out crying even though he was hiding it well behind a carefully blank expression. He sat in the middle of Enjolras’s couch with his knees drawn up to his chest and he knew that the reasonable thing would be to let him sleep as much as that would be possible but he looked so upset even despite trying not to let it show that Enjolras found himself talking without meaning to again.

How little control he had over himself was something easier to blame on the tiredness than Grantaire.

“You know, there was this guy I went to college with,” he started.

Grantaire looked up. “Okay?” He said slowly, eyes brows drawn together in slight confusion but everything was better than the cold, upset expression so Enjolras continued even though he mentally kicked himself for even starting in the first place. He didn’t _do_ consoling, he didn’t know how it worked but well, he couldn’t really stop now.

He shrugged. “He’s a corporate lawyer now.”

Grantaire’s lips quirked just a little bit. He seemed to ponder for a moment before taking the so obviously offered opportunity to change of subject.

“So I take it, it didn’t work out between you?” He asked almost slyly, smile widening so much so that it couldn’t almost be considered an actual one.

Enjolras would have probably been more proud of that achievement if he hadn’t been so taken aback by the reply.

“What? No! Definitely no,” he protested maybe a little bit too loudly. “We weren’t a thing or anything, oh my god no, _gross._ ” Just the idea that - no. Enjolras shuddered.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

Alright, yeah he could see how that maybe came out wrong. And he definitely regretted even starting to talk by now without thinking before.

Which was a thing he should be doing more.

“Not -,” Enjolras added quickly, “Not because I’m not into men or anything I mean -” god, he should have stuck to drinking lukewarm tea, he didn’t get _flustered_ “- which is not the point.” He was sure he was blushing like hell. At least his cheeks felt like it. He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Not the point. Anyway. We worked that one case together, only one. We were fresh out of law school, twenty-four, no idea what we doing, really….”

And then he launched into an explanation of the story he had told about a hundred times in the three years they that passed since then. He wasn’t as animated as a storyteller as Courfeyrac or as patient and structured as Combeferre but he had the advantage of being first-hand witness to the whole thing.

“…. And by the end Javert was crying and running out of the room. And I didn’t see him for three months after that.”

Grantaire was staring at Enjolras wide-eyed.

“You’re kidding me.”

He shook his head solemnly. “Not kidding.”

The other man stared at him and then, just slowly, a smile crept up his face starting at the corners of mouth and eventually growing into a disbelieving laugh, soft and quiet but his eyes lit up making them look more blue than green and Enjolras had to concentrate on breathing regularly in and out what suddenly seemed much more of a hardship.

After a while that was probably much longer than it felt like - Enjolras would have argued that any time would have been too short – Grantaire stopped laughing and sighed but a small reminiscence of the smile stayed.

“Thank you,” was the only thing he said and Enjolras knew that it was for more than just telling a stupid little story. He didn’t have to say it and Enjolras didn’t need to hear it to know.

“You’re welcome,” he said and it was as simple as that.

 

***

 

Enjolras cursed the world, the gods, himself, everything at once when his alarm ripped him out of his sleep at 8am sharp.

It had been right after two when he and Grantaire had eventually gone to bed. Jehan had obviously found the time to sort out the guestroom as well as hanging up some sort of self-made mobile. Enjolras had to remember thanking them the next time and maybe look for some sort of gift for the poet, some potted plant or pullover Montparnasse would want burn on spot. He knew they didn’t expect anything but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

Enjolras kicked his blankets away even though every fiber of his being protested.

His still half-asleep brain had enough common sense to pull a too big, woolen pullover over his head that smelled like Combeferre but had somehow found its way into his closet. But obviously said half-asleep brain wasn’t awake enough to deem the smell of fresh coffee and … eggs (?) something too unusual.

 

Maybe he was still dreaming.

 

At least it looked like it because when he followed the smell, Grantaire was standing at the stove in his kitchen, barefoot, hair a mess and dressed in the same dark blue sweater than the day before only that it made his eyes look even more bright in the morning light.

Enjolras blinked. Once. Twice.

After being about seventy-five percent sure that he was indeed awake, he stared for a second longer before clearing his throat carefully.

Grantaire tensed and spun around, startled, but relaxed immediately when he saw Enjolras standing in the doorway.

“I couldn’t really sleep?” He offered apologetically and Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure but there might have been a little bit of a blush on his cheeks before he averted his eyes. “I hope you don’t mind, I made breakfast, I thought -”

“It’s alright,” Enjolras interrupted him and he must have sounded completely bewildered because the smile on Grantaire’s face widened.

His expression turned just a tiny, tiny bit mischievous. “Even though I have to say it was kind of hard to find anything remotely edible. You _are_ aware a human being can’t survive solely on granola bars, are you?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes.

 

***

 

Despite - as mentioned before - absolutely despising to drive in the city Enjolras decided on taking the car to the precinct anyway. They could have taken the subway but even though Grantaire did seem a lot better that morning Enjolras, once fully awake after his second cup of coffee, couldn’t shake the feeling that it was just that his facade was much better in place this time.

He didn’t mention it though.

The day was going to be stressful as it already was.

Since they had left Enjolras’s apartment after a comfortably silent and absolutely delicious breakfast - Enjolras didn’t remember the last time he actually had a _real_ breakfast - Grantaire seemed a bit too considerate of smiling, standing upright and generally appear relaxed and calm. Enjolras supposed he didn’t notice his own fingers drumming restlessly on his knee for the entire drive.

Enjolras was almost relieved when his phone rang. He glanced at Grantaire who shrugged easily before he took the call over the hands-free system that Cosette had insisted on installing in his car. Which was thankfully easy enough to handle even despite the raging war Enjolras was engaged in with all things technical most of the times. Don’t even let him get started on the printer in the office. He was absolutely sure that thing had it out for him.

“Hello?”

“Hey, morning buddy,” Bahorel’s voice sounded through the speaker.

Enjolras immediately tensed. “Bahorel, is everything alright?”

“Well, it’s not best news but also not a disaster, just thought I’d give you a heads-up that the sergeant’s in today. Took a bit of an interest in your little case there, so he might be around, just if you wanted to forewarn your newest boy toy.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow but Enjolras only rolled his eyes even though he cursed inwardly. He could handle Javert, after all he wasn’t a bad person just a bit too obsessed with laws and rules and not thinking critically for Enjolras’s taste. The sergeant of the precinct, however, was a bigoted privileged asshole, as simple as that.

It certainly wasn’t going to make the situation easier if Enjolras had to restrain himself from physical assault.

“Right, thanks for the heads-up Bahorel.”

“Sure man, no worries. See ya later.”

“What was that about?” Grantaire asked after Enjolras had hung up.

He sighed. “Bahorel is a friend who’s a detective in the precinct.”

“You’re a lawyer who has a cop friend?” Grantaire’s tone was dry but there was amusement in his voice. It could have almost been enough to make Enjolras stop worrying about.

“He’s a good guy,” he replied. “Even though he can be a bit loud-mouthed.”

“Really?” Grantaire said dryly. “Didn’t notice.”

Enjolras huffed then turned the car right at the next corner.

“What did he mean, ‘forewarn’ me?”

Enjolras shrugged. “The sergeant is a bit of an asshole.”

Grantaire’s eyebrow rose again.

“Alright, he’s a huge ass but nothing I haven’t or can’t handle. If Bahorel says he took an interest in the case he might want to do the questioning or at least not let Javert do it on his own. If he’s around just, don’t let him rile you up. He’s a stupid, privileged git, not worth the trouble.”

“Right,” Grantaire agreed slowly. He didn’t sound convinced.

Enjolras put up a smile that he hoped was somewhat believable. “Maybe we’ll have luck and he already got something better to do.”

 

***

 

Of course they had no such luck.

Enjolras hated the interrogation rooms, they were cold and dark and obviously made to intimidate but that still wasn’t an excuse to skip dusting in his opinion.

He sat next to Grantaire in one of the uncomfortable chairs and tried to not let it show so much that he really wanted to punch the man doing the questioning right in the face. Fortunately, he had perfected his professional, unfazed expression over the years.

Sergeant Theodule Gillenormand was a man around thirty who seemed to be on leave three-quarters of the year and vain enough to put even Montparnasse to shame. Only that Montparnasse had never made the mistake of growing the grotesque attempt of a mustache that sat in the blond man’s face like a smudge of white sauce, saggy and sad.

How he had gotten into the position he had was beyond Enjolras’s understanding of common sense but he could imagine one or two possibilities that had to do with nothing but ties and money.

Javert stood in the back clearly uncomfortable but Enjolras know he wasn’t going to do anything against someone higher in rank. Even though that someone was being unnecessarily rude and a right douche bag.

 

Grantaire was doing admirably well though.

 

“Where we you yesterday between 6 and 8pm?”

“I was in my apartment.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t answer more than asked and even though Enjolras noticed his hands curling into tight fists under the table he didn’t lash out.

“I understand correctly that the victim was your agent?”

“ _Floréal_ was my agent, yes.”

“For how long?”

“About three years.”

“What was your personal relationship?”

“She was a good friend.”

“Sure she wasn’t a little bit more than that? An attractive woman like that so close by? I mean that must have been quite the temptation, right?”

“ _No_. At the very beginning of our relationship, there were moments that might have lead to something more but we both decided unanimously that we were better off as friends and business partners.”

“So you _were_ physically intimate?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time?”

“About _three years ago._ ”

 

Really, really well.

 

Enjolras couldn’t help but feel a little proud of Grantaire. Next to well, being concerned about him. And wanting to punch something. Or someone.

It was all too clear that they didn’t have any solid arguments.

After fishing for motives and the obvious try to blow the argument that had happened earlier that day out of proportion that was immediately crushed by Enjolras, he had enough.

“Sergeant, it is obvious that my client is not the one responsible for Miss Cortot’s death. He has no motive to brutally kill a friend and has never shown any delinquent, criminal or aggressive behavior. He cooperated willingly and offered to answer your questions. Unless you have anything concretely incriminating on my client I believe we are done here.”

Enjolras emphasized his words by shutting the file laid out in front of him and stood up.

The sergeant didn’t move. His eyes were grayish and watery perfectly showing off the annoying superiority complex as he smiled lazily. “I do have one last question.”

He cocked his head and looked Grantaire who had been about to stand up as well. “If you don’t mind.”

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras who successfully kept his anger in check and nodded calmly.

“Alright.”

“Did you kill Floréal Cortot because she was always going to be nothing but a reminder of the homosexual tendencies that you’re so desperately trying to suppress?”

Enjolras’s jaw dropped.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Grantaire snapped and the smug smile on the Sergeant's face widened.

“Are you denying it?”

“Am I denying it? What, my repressed homosexual tendencies?” Grantaire let out a single laugh that was shocked and disbelieving. And cold. “Hell yes, I’m denying it. I don’t have repressed homosexual tendencies because I don’t _repress_ my homosexual tendencies, I am _bisexual_ which you would know is a thing that exists if you had arrived in the 21st century or, you know, done half a minute of Google research.”

The chair scraping over the ground was the only sound in the room when Grantaire stood up. Or maybe that and the deep, deep breath Enjolras took. Because. Reasons.

“Is that everything?”

Javert was the first one to break the silence. He cleared his throat pointedly when no one else seemed to say anything. “If you remember anything else please contact us,” he said professionally calm. “Thank you for your cooperation.” Enjolras was almost sure he was trying to hide a smile.

Grantaire’s eyes snapped to the detective standing in the corner. “Right.” Enjolras had never heard a single word drenched in so much sarcasm before. “You’re welcome.” Alright, _now_ he had never heard anything more sarcastic before.

Javert opened the door and Enjolras hurried to follow Grantaire out of the room barely keeping up with him until they had reached the elevator.

As soon as the doors shut Grantaire started trembling, he sacked against the wall of the elevator and laughed. It sounded choked and shakily.

“Oh my god.” He ran a trembling hand across his face, through his hair, breath coming quickly and sharp.

Enjolras reached out and took his hands without second thought making blue and green eyes look up into his own. “Hey, everything is fine,” he said calmly breathing steadily and slowly Grantaire started to stop shake like a leaf. “You were _great_ in there, you did nothing wrong.”

“Yeah, right up until insulted a high-ranking police officer,” he replied sarcastically, voice rough.

Enjolras shook his head. “He’s just a sergeant. He might not exactly like you now but he can do nothing. He’s a bigoted, sad man who had it coming.”

Grantaire smiled shakily, it was more a twitch of the lips but Enjolras was dead set on making it stay. He shrugged. “At least you didn’t punch him. I would have.”

The other man huffed. “Really?”

“Yes, I’m just too busy to deal with assault charges.”

Grantaire’s smile widened and Enjolras couldn’t help but smile back until he realized that he was still holding Grantaire’s hand in his and quickly took a step back.

He cleared his throat. “You should probably get some rest. Try to get a bit more sleep if you can.”

“Right,” Grantaire said looking down at his hands. “I think I’m just going to call up Bossuet.”

Enjolras didn’t blame him for not wanting to go home, it was probably for the best. Just in case anything else happened. Just the thought made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

He put on a hopefully reassuring smile though. “Sure. Do you want to get a coffee or something waiting for him? There’s a place right down the street and the coffee is much better than the one they have around here.”

Grantaire huffed but it sounded almost like a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great.”

 

***

 

The small bell over the door rang brightly when Enjolras stepped into the café, Grantaire trailing quietly behind him. It was a gorgeous little thing, all warm colours and the smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries hanging in the air.

The young man behind the counter looked up when Enjolras opened the door, a smile spreading across his freckled face.

Enjolras smiled right back. “Hey, Feuilly.”

“Enjolras,” he greeted back pushing his dark, copper hair out of his face when he put down the book he had held before. “The usual?”

Enjolras wasn’t the experimental type when it came to coffee. The ‘usual’ was a simple, regular black coffee, double-shot espresso, a little bit sugar.

“Yes, please and a...” He turned to Grantaire.

“Oh, just a latte.”

“And a latte for Grantaire.”

Feuilly nodded and turned to the coffee machine to take care of their order. He looked over his shoulder scrutinizing Grantaire not bothering to be subtle.

“So. Grantaire,” he started and Enjolras send him a warning glance that was pointedly ignored. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

If Grantaire was surprised he didn’t show it. “Same.”

“You know,” Feuilly said and nodded his head at Enjolras. “He never brings around clients. You should feel honoured.”

“I do,” Grantaire replied seriously but his lips turned up into that lopsided smirk that made Enjolras lose some basic body functions like… breathing. For only a second.

“How did you know I was a client?” Grantaire asked and Feuilly’s grin reminded Enjolras too much of Bahorel’s to mean anything good.

“Oh, because he certainly would have told me about a boyfriend.”

“What?” Enjolras got out, slightly offended and a little bit too loudly maybe. “Why do you think I would do that?”

Feuilly laughed. It was a beautiful sound. A couple at the closest table turned their heads curiously and Enjolras could feel himself blushing at the attention.

“Well, don’t tell me you wouldn’t.”

The problem was that Feuilly was probably - or most definitely - right because if something mattered to Enjolras it was the approval of his friends and he trusted them to have a good judgement of people. Especially Feuilly. Because Feuilly was amazing. In every way.

“Yeah, probably,” he admitted begrudgingly and Feuilly laughed again.

Grantaire watched the whole exchange attentively. He seemed relaxed leaning against the counter with that smile still in place but Enjolras could see that his jaw was tense when he turned to the red-haired man and his eyes narrowed just a little when he asked casually, “You didn’t ask what I did.”

Feuilly simply shrugged. “Nothing that really matters if you got him to defend you.”

He put their cups in front of a taken aback Grantaire.

“Your orders.”

Enjolras quickly pulled out his wallet before Grantaire could protest and told Feuilly to keep the change. “Thank you,” he said and Feuilly nodded. Enjolras saw that he knew it wasn’t just for the coffee.

They walked over to a battered - or probably _vintage_ \- bar table at the window.

“So, he seems like a good guy,” Grantaire said while Enjolras held back a noise probably not fitting for public places when he took a sip of his coffee.

“Feuilly? Yes, he is. He’s amazing,” Enjolras started enthusiastically, “he’s one of the best people I know. He’s generous and kind and so incredibly intelligent, he taught himself everything he knows, it’s incredible. Do you know he’s working two jobs to pay for college, he’s studying social work and… what?”

Grantaire looked at him with a wide smile. “Nothing,” he grinned. “Just that you sound like an absolute fan girl.”

And because he didn’t want Grantaire to stop smiling like that Enjolras simply shrugged and said with the most dignity he could muster up, “Well, I’m actually vice president of the official Feuilly fan club.”

“There’s an official Feuilly fan club?”

“Yes, there is,” Feuilly deadpanned and Enjolras hadn’t even realized that he had come over to their table and startled at the sudden appearance. Feuilly put a paper bag on the table and continued, “They have a facebook page. There are t-shirts and all that. My boyfriend thinks it’s and I quote ‘dope as hell’.” He nodded at the bag. “Saved you some of the mini muffins but give one to Courfeyrac too or I won’t hear the end of it.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, very, very dignified, “And you know Bahorel and I are taking this very seriously.”

“Bahorel as in your cop friend?” Grantaire piped up curiously and Feuilly sighed even though there was a small, fond smile playing around his lips that he didn’t even seem to notice. “Yes, exactly that one. Don’t let him convince you to join though; I don’t want more people running around in those horrid shirts. They’re orange.”

And then he simply scurried away not giving Enjolras the opportunity to shoot back a reply that would have definitely been witty and sophisticated.

A few minutes later the door of the café flew open revealing a tall, black man with a rainbow coloured knitted scarf slung around his neck and a yellow bobble hat.

Bossuet looked around frantically before he spotted them and crossed the room just to immediately pull Grantaire up into a hug that looked a little too tight to be completely painless. “Don’t. _Ever_ worry us like that again,” he breathed out patting Grantaire’s head who looked like he had some trouble breathing.

“I’ll try, promise,” he got out and Bossuet stepped away but kept his hands on Grantaire’s shoulder looking him up and down worriedly. “Are you alright? I mean of course you’re not but you know, I mean, you look fine, how did it go? What-”

“Bossuet,” Grantaire interrupted softly but insistently. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

“Right, right.” The other man nodded and took a deep breath before he turned to Enjolras who had stood quietly to the side. Before he knew what happened though he had an armful of Bossuet and the air was pressed out of his lungs. Alright then.

“Good to see you too, Bossuet,” he wheezed but couldn’t help but smile.

Bossuet let go of him. “Thank you,” he said seriously, “I’m so sorry for just dropping in on you like that. Just, thank you.”

Enjolras smiled. “You don’t have to thank me for helping. Besides, I’ve barely done anything.”

“Bullshit.” Enjolras turned to Grantaire. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“I’d do it again,” Enjolras said because he meant it.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to take your help for granted,” Grantaire shrugged and his tone was nonchalant but Enjolras knew he meant his words because he had cast down his eyes because Grantaire was suddenly looking at him far too intensely.

“Then I guess you’re welcome.”

He had almost forgotten Bossuet was there until he let out a long, drawn out, “Okay…..” His eyes were flickering from Enjolras to Grantaire.

For some reason, Enjolras could feel his cheeks heat up again but he ignored it and cleared his throat.

“Make sure he’ll get some rest alright?” He said to Bossuet then turned back to Grantaire, “I’ll have to check by the office. Call me or just come over if you think of anything else that could help somehow, doesn’t matter what or when.”

“Okay,” the other man nodded. Enjolras could see him swallow but he didn’t say anything else.

“Bossuet, it was nice seeing you again.”

Bossuet cocked his head slightly looking at him as if he knew something Enjolras didn’t then smiled. “Yeah, you too. We’ll catch up some time, right? And say hi to Courf and Marius from me, okay?”

Enjolras smiled back. “Of course I will.”

And then he drowned the rest of his coffee in one go and left the café ignoring Feuilly’s knowing look and every other thought attached to it.

 

***

 

Enjolras didn’t know what time it was when the sound of someone clearing their throat sounded from the door of his office. He remembered Courfeyrac coming in earlier asking if he wanted to join him and Combeferre for lunch and answering with some sort of noncommittal grunt sound but Courfeyrac knew him well enough to know which of those meant yes and which no.

He hadn’t left the office since coming in after Grantaire’s questioning the day before and he should probably invest in a more comfortable couch sooner or later because his back was kindly trying to kill him.

“You look terrible.”

Enjolras startled at the voice and right, there had been someone at his door.

When he looked up that someone turned out to be Grantaire leaning against the doorframe casually with two paper cups of coffee in his hands. He was wearing a washed out, dark grey hoodie and looked utterly out of place but he didn’t seem to mind. He smiled and walked over the few steps to Enjolras’s desk.

“Your secretary let me in. I hope you don’t mind?”

And right, he was supposed to say something and not stare like a brain-dead zombie. Which was a little bit difficult since he couldn’t really focus on anything but Grantaire and the smell of coffee in his nose.

Alright, he really needed to get a grip.

And probably stop being around Grantaire when he was sleep-deprived because he really couldn’t be held accountable for his actions like that.

“Of course not,” he managed to get out eventually and at least he sounded calmer than he felt. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Uhm, no actually. I was around.” He shrugged. “Actually, I’m just trying not to be home on my own which is well, ridiculous but... I can go if I’m bothering you.”

“No,” Enjolras hurried to say. “You’re not bothering me. I was just about to have my lunch break anyway.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

Enjolras winced. “... One?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“One thirty?”

“More like four,” the other man deadpanned and Enjolras’s eyes widened.

“What really?” He looked down at his watch and well. Huh. Time flies.

“Maybe you should tell your secretary to make sure you take a break from time to time,” Grantaire suggested and Enjolras needed a moment to realize who he was talking about.

He couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Well, Marius is technically not a secretary. And I think he might be scared of interrupting me when I’m working.”

“Wait, that’s Marius?” Grantaire’s face broke out into a grin. It didn’t stop Enjolras from noticing how tired he looked though, with dark circles under his eyes. “That’s the guy Bossuet pretended to be back in law school that got him kicked out?”

He handed Enjolras one of the cups and he pretended not to be too eager to reach for it. “You know the story?“

“Of course I know the story, Bossuet tells it every time he’s drunk. And I honestly don’t know which version is the true one anymore but I doubt it’s the one where he got abducted by giant eagles that flew him home afterwards.”

“Well, I was there. And I don’t remember any eagles.”

“Knew it.”

Enjolras snorted and tried to hide his smile behind his cup.

Grantaire strolled over to the broad window front and just turned around to say something else when the door flew open.

 

Courfeyrac stormed in, black hair messy as if he had run his hands through it multiple times, the bright red tie with little white stars on it hung loosely around his neck. There was something very akin to panic in his eyes.

 

“You can’t let me be alone with him Enjolras, I can’t take it,” he started and alright, he had been about to interrupt him but he knew where this was going and he knew just as well that there was no chance of that. His voice was edging on hysterical. “He was wearing scrubs okay? Scrubs! And you want to know something? He looks good in scrubs and not in the ‘oh look at him, he’s adorable’ way but in the way people would be silently judging you because of your doctor kink when you started going on about it. Which I don’t have. Really. I mean okay, would I mind if he kept them on? No, I probably wouldn’t. Okay, I definitely wouldn’t. So? Sue me.”

Enjolras bit down on his lip.

“Oh, what?!” Courfeyrac snapped like a sullen teenager and let himself fall into the chair in front of Enjolras’s desk.

Grantaire cleared his throat pointedly and when Courfeyrac startled and almost fell out of the chair again Enjolras couldn’t help the single laugh escaping his mouth before he carefully controlled his features.

“I’m might not be a lawyer,” Grantaire said calmly, “But I don’t think you can be charged for a doctor kink.”

Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment before he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Of course not, because I don’t have one.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, mate.”

Courfeyrac huffed and turned to Enjolras, his eyes widening when he noticed the paper cup in his hand. His eyebrows rose just a fraction and Enjolras wondered how it was possible that he and Combeferre both had the same knowing, slightly judging, slightly concerned look down to perfection.  

“So,” he started pursing his lips. “You want to tell me who that is?”

Enjolras sighed deeply. “Courf, that’s Grantaire. Grantaire, this is Courfeyrac, my partner.”

“ _Business_ partner,” Courfeyrac corrected pointedly. “Also I’m his best friend, you know in case- ”

Enjolras kicked his shin under the table. He ignored the affronted look on Courfeyrac’s face and calmly explained, “Grantaire is a friend of Bossuet who called me to help him.”

Courfeyrac’s expression immediately turned serious. “He’s a new _client_?” The emphasis on the last word was discreet. Enjolras heard it anyway.

“Yes,” Enjolras simply said and Courfeyrac nodded even though the look he send Enjolras before turning back to Grantaire clearly said, ‘We are going to talk about this’.

“How is Bossuet? The last time we talked he told me he moved in with that adorable boyfriend of his.”

Grantaire didn’t seem to mind the sudden change of topic. “Did he tell you about their new girlfriend as well?” He grinned.

Courfeyrac beamed. “Tell. Me. More.”

 

***

 

Grantaire left about half an hour later after an exchange of too many embarrassing college stories for Enjolras’s liking but he had seemed more relaxed than the day before so he wasn’t going to complain.

He and Courfeyrac got on like a house on fire, obviously, and not just because Courfeyrac got on with literally everyone. Enjolras mostly sat back and listened and was content in doing so because it gave him the opportunity to subtly study the way Grantaire’s nose twitched whenever he laughed or how his hair curled at his neck.

As soon as he left though Enjolras was met by Courfeyrac’s serious expression again.

He sighed. “Look, Courf, I know what you are going to say and I can tell you, it’s not like that. I know he’s a client and really, that’s all there is. Bossuet asked me to help him and I am. Nothing more.”

The other man frowned. “Actually,” he started, “I was going to say that I think you should go home. Get some rest because you look like you need it.

Enjolras got a sinking sensation in his stomach like he was looking down from a very, very high building. “Oh.”

Courfeyrac didn’t say anything but he had the incredible ability of being quite loudly very silent.

Biting down on his lip Enjolras gathered the files he had been going through from his desk “I made you a copy of his files, well Marius did. I didn’t get the copy machine to work. Again.”

Fingers gently encircled Enjolras’s wrist and when Enjolras looked up Courfeyrac’s bright green eyes were looking at him with unreserved fondness.

“Go home Enjolras. Get some sleep. Everything is easier after getting a good night’s sleep. Come back tomorrow and then we’ll go over everything and see if there’s something else we can do, okay?”

“Okay,” Enjolras relented and Courfeyrac smiled triumphantly.

“ _Good._ Now shoo, go. And don’t be back before noon tomorrow or I’ll tell Ferre he’s not allowed to make his biryani for a month.”

Enjolras huffed. He couldn’t help but smile though when he pulled on his coat and slung his bag over his shoulder. “You know that’s more a punishment for you than for me.”

Courfeyrac sighed heavily. “I’m willing to make sacrifices. Now get out of my sight. And tell me when you’re home.”

“Yes, mom.”

“Oh, do not take that tone with me, young man!”

 

***

 

Enjolras realized he was dreaming after about two seconds. Which was weird itself because usually he didn’t remember his dreams in general and if he did, he only knew he had been dreaming _after_ he woke up.

He stepped out - out? Out of what? - onto a strangely familiar street that was nothing but black and white and grey and started walking, not that he knew where or why but oh well. His hands, arms, everything was black and white as well like he had stepped into an old movie.

It took him a single look around to realize why the street seemed so familiar.

After probably hours of staring at the photography on his bedroom wall, he would have recognised the scene anywhere, the wet cobblestones, the old Parisian houses, the morning sun.

The pieces put themselves together when he noticed the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, the suit he was wearing clinging a little bit too tight to his shoulders and the battered, old shoes that felt like a pair of socks.

He wasn’t even surprised if he had to be honest.

Not about obviously dreaming of himself as the unknown man in the picture walking down a street of Paris. It had probably only been a matter of time.

He did, however, startle at the touch of a hand on his upper arm and spun around.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire smiled, a lopsided quirk of lips. His hair was as inky black as ever but the rest of him was as black and white as the rest of the world which was why it took Enjolras a second to notice the giant stain in the middle of his crisp white shirt right on his chest, a dark, dark grey that looked awful lot like it could be blood.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Enjolras asked urgently but Grantaire only waved his hand dismissively.

“Oh, that thing? Don’t worry ‘bout it, it’s alright.”

Enjolras relaxed a little at the words. Even though there was still a part of his mind remaining alert. Maybe because he was dreaming.

Which was well, alerting enough already.

“Why is everything black and white here?” He blurted out.

The explanation that they were in a dream, in a photography - in the lieu of anything better to describe the situation - seemed a bit too easy.

Grantaire glanced at him then started walking nodding at Enjolras to follow him. “Because the world is, isn’t it? Black and white, rich and poor, good and evil.”

“What?” Enjolras hurried to keep up with his steps. The messenger bag was swinging against his leg at every step. “Why would you say that? That’s terribly essentialist.”

The other man shrugged. “Maybe. But don’t ask _me,_ we’re in your head.”

Enjolras stopped in his tracks but Grantaire didn’t seem to mind. He simply opened a door to their right that Enjolras hadn’t even noticed or noticed how they had gotten there in general. A bell chimed and suddenly he recognized the café Feuilly worked in only that it wasn’t Feuilly behind the counter but a tall - probably - dark haired man with his back turned to them.

“A latte macchiato and a coffee, double shot espresso, a bit sugar, please,” Grantaire said and well, Enjolras couldn’t say that he didn’t immediately feel a little bit less on edge at the promise of coffee. Even it was dream coffee in a dream café where everything was black and white but he wasn’t going to be picky.

The man behind the counter turned around and Enjolras’s jaw dropped.

“Parnasse?”

Continuing to dry up the cup in his hand with a ridiculously squared towel Montparnasse raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “What?”

“You… you’re a _barista_.”

Alright, okay. Now this dream had officially entered crazy-territory. Enjolras couldn’t help but stare at the simple black shirt the other man was wearing under the apron - apron?! - and that was before he noticed the obvious lack of product in his hair. His eyes were the only thing just as always, black on white.

“And?” He huffed and at least he sounded a lot like the Montparnasse Enjolras knew. He turned around taking care of their orders when it got clear Enjolras didn’t know how to respond to that.

He looked at Grantaire, he wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find, maybe some answer to whatever was going on but he only shrugged again silently mouthing, ‘Your head’ and right.

Enjolras's head. Enjolras’s dream.

Fantastic.

“What,” he started when Montparnasse had turned around again, “are _you_ doing as a barista?”

“Cleaning up after you?” The other man suggested with a quirk of his lips. When Enjolras frowned the little smile turned into a smirk. “Mmh, yeah, maybe not. Maybe providing you with the thing your life would be a lot harder without?” He placed their cups in front of Enjolras. “Or maybe, I’m just here to poison your coffee.”

His teeth were white between dark grey lips when he grinned. “Your head.”

And with that he turned around walking away as if nothing had happened.

Enjolras stared after him completely lost until Grantaire ripped him out of his state of shock.

“Come on, let’s sit down, okay?”

He took both of their cups from the counter then handed Enjolras the one with the coffee. Their fingers brushed, he didn’t know who had been initiating it but for the first time he was kind of glad for the black and white if only it made him blushing less obvious.

He raised the cup to his mouth but before he could drink his eyes fell on his fingers that were suddenly coated in splashes of dark grey.

It was like time slowed down when the cup fell out of his hand, everything seemed to slow down, movements, breaths, the heart beating in his chest until the cup hit the ground shattering, splashing coffee everywhere, hot over Enjolras’s shoes but he could only stare at his hands in horror.

His fingertips were drenched in blood, dark, almost black. Wet.

He looked up meeting Grantaire’s eyes shocked but the other man was calm, coffee cup still in his hands even though the blood was dripping from his fingers as well.

“What is going on?” Enjolras’s breathed out, pulse beating loudly in his ears.

Grantaire set the cup back on the counter leaving blood fingerprints all over it.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? You’re bleeding!” Enjolras reached out for Grantaire’s arm but as soon as he touched it he could feel his fingers sink into skin, into warmth and wetness, deeper where there should be resistance. He ripped his hand away horrified.

It was like ripping your fingers away after touching frozen metal. Only that Enjolras felt no pain. More blood on his fingers but it wasn’t his own.

Grantaire’s arm was bleeding, skin ripped apart where Enjolras’s fingers had touched him, dark grey dwelling up running down over the back of his hand in drops of blood.

Grantaire smiled. “It’s fine.”

“What?” Enjolras got out, his own voice getting stuck in his throat. It was like choking. There was blood on his fingers and Grantaire smiled softly.

“Don’t worry about me, it’s not your fault.”

He reached out with his hand but Enjolras stepped back, back, far enough so he wouldn’t _touch._

Grantaire’s smile still didn’t waver. “It’s okay, don’t worry.”

“I hurt you,” Enjolras managed to get out, panic making the pulse beat in his ears, his throat, louder, faster. Hard enough to hurt. He was going to be stick. The blood made his fingers stick together. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s not _your_ decision,” Grantaire said patiently stepping closer.

Enjolras stepped back until his back hit the wall. He realized with horror that the stain on Grantaire’s shirt spread soaking the white fabric first in grey, then slowly but surely it turned more maroon and then red, dark red on white drenching it more and more, red.

Grantaire’s smile faltered a little, pain blending into his expression. He stumbled at his next step, not enough to fall but almost. He was within Enjolras’s reach. He could have reached out to hold him up. The smell of blood stung in his nose. Grantaire didn’t look at away from Enjolras once, didn’t drop his hand reaching out until he was only a step away.

He smiled.

“Please?” He said and his lips were red.

 

***

 

Enjolras woke up with a scream muffled by his pillow, breathing harshly. He blinked furiously, unshed tears stinging in his eyes while he tried to get control of his breathing. Slowly his surroundings got back into focus, the bed sheets clinging to his sweaty skin, the morning light falling softly through the curtains. He felt for the bottle of water standing next to his bed and chucked down half of it in one go.

He fell back onto the bed at least being able to breathe a little lighter but his heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. Pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes he counted to ten, then to twenty and around one-hundred-thirty his heart rate had slowed down enough to not feel like someone was punching him at every beat.

 

Just a dream.

Just a stupid nightmare.

 

Enjolras stood up shoving the sheets away and pulled Combeferre’s pullover over his pyjamas. The arms were too long but it was warm and comforting and smelled like Combeferre. He didn’t know what constituted to that particular smell but it was calming.

More swaying than walking he made his way into the kitchen, a glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was half past eight already. So at least he did get a little more sleep than usual, Courfeyrac would be proud. Not that it felt like he had gotten any sleep though.

He felt even more tired than before.

With a sigh Enjolras turned on the coffee machine, one of the only technical devices that he had learned to handle perfectly, and stared at a point at the wall until the coffee was ready.

He shuffled back into his room with the cup and for a moment indulged in the fantasy of simply going back to bed and closing his eyes. Instead he drank the whole cup in under a minute even though the coffee was still too hot, not hot enough to burn his tongue but not exactly pleasant as well.

All the while he looked at the photography hanging on the wall and couldn’t help but think it was beautiful.

Stupid nightmare.

Enjolras huffed at his own silliness and put the empty cup on his nightstand.

The world did look a little bit brighter again after another cup of coffee and a long shower even though it was a strange feeling not to rush to work at that time of the day. But Courfeyrac had insisted that he wasn’t allowed to show up before noon and Enjolras might be about a whole head taller than his friend but that didn’t mean he was going to do something as stupid as trying to show up anyway.

He was just towelling his hair when his phone rang. After a few seconds of searching, he managed to find it in the depth of the rumpled sheets on his bed.

The caller ID made his stomach drop.

“Bahorel?”

“Enjolras, mate, look I don’t have loads of time here but there’s been another victim that’s most likely related to your artist guy. I called Bossuet but he said he wasn’t with him. I’m just saying you should better hurry to find him before he can say anything to the cops on his own because I’m telling ya, it doesn’t look good.”

Enjolras forced himself to take a deep breath. “What happened?”

“I don’t really know, just heard the victim is somehow linked to your guy.”

Right. He relaxed his hand that he hadn’t realized had curled into a fist at his side.

“Do you have an address?”

 

***

 

Grantaire blinked like a confused cat that had just woken up and Enjolras might have had more time to appreciate the undeniable adorableness of the expression if he hadn’t been that wired up. He wasn’t sure if the hair sticking to the back of his neck was due to him not taking the time to dry it or because of the sweat caused by driving at speed limit in New York City and then proceeding to practically bolt up the stairs to Grantaire’s apartment after slipping through the main entrance door behind a little old lady that looked much more content with the world than Enjolras had felt in years.  

God, he hated driving.

And running.

And basically everything in that moment but well, what could you do.

Grantaire eventually managed to get out a startled “Enjolras?” after he had already shoved his way past Grantaire into the apartment. “What - what are you doing here?”

“Not important,” he murmured under his breath taking a quick look around the room. No one else. He couldn’t really decide if that was a good or a bad thing. “What are _you_ doing here? I thought you stayed at Bossuet’s place?”

Grantaire closed the door behind him and frowned. “I was. But I just couldn’t -,” he stopped and when Enjolras turned around he caught a last glimpse of the other man’s expression, defeated, distressed before he cast his eyes down and composed himself.

So obviously Grantaire’s morning had been even worse than Enjolras’s. And here he was, not exactly going to make it better.

“You’ve been here alone?” he asked. He knew the answer and he knew he should just come out with it, say it, he shouldn’t have a problem with it but the look in Grantaire’s eyes made him want to be more sensitive, consoling. Problem being, Enjolras _wasn’t_ exactly what one would call sensitive. Truths could be harsh but they had to be said.

He really needed to get a grip.

“I just needed some space. It was… suffocating,“ Grantaire murmured but then he looked up at Enjolras and something like comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Why?” he asked skeptically and before Enjolras answered before he could think of any argument against it.

“There’s been another victim.”

The way Grantaire’s face fell made him regret it almost instantly.

“What?” he breathed, shock taking over his face. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras admitted painfully. Maybe he should have thought about anything at least starting to resemble a plan of action before rushing through what had easily felt like half of the city. “I don’t know anything concrete actually. Bahorel called to tell me that they were heading out to...”

“To arrest me?” Grantaire cut in sharply but there was a note of panic underneath.

“I’m not going to _let_ them.”

And as if the universe hadn’t had enough of making cruel jokes already, there was a knock at the door at that exact moment.

Grantaire froze.

Enjolras willed himself to stay calm and focused. ‘Lawyer mode’ Courfeyrac called it and if Enjolras was honest, he did have a point.

“You’re surprised,” he instructed Grantaire calmly but firm then nodded at him to open the door while positioning himself pointedly casual right in the middle of the room, bag slung over his shoulder, perfect suit. He just hoped his hair didn’t look too much like a bird’s nest but well, there was nothing that could have changed that now.

 

With a deep breath Grantaire opened the door.

 

“Mister Grantaire, good morning,” Javert’s voice said.

“Detective,” he said, a question swinging in the greeting. Enjolras couldn’t see Grantaire’s face but he sounded quite convincingly surprised.

“Sergeant,” he added then a lot less friendly and Enjolras groaned inwardly. He had hoped they wouldn’t have to deal with that snotty idiot again but _again_ , the morning only seemed to get worse and worse.

“May we come in?” Javert asked. “There’ve been some new developments in your case. We know you were probably instructed not to talk to us without your lawyer but -”

“It’s a good thing he’s here then,” Enjolras cut in and Javert’s utterly surprised face as he spotted him was a small victory at least. “Enjolras?”  

“Detective.”

“What are you doing here?” Gillenormand snapped and Enjolras didn’t even bother keeping the smugness out of his - clearly - faked smile.

“No need for hostility, Sergeant. I was just about to pick up my client to go over a few things at the office.” He shrugged casually. The other man’s face started to get a little bit blotchy with red. “What do we owe the… pleasure of your visit?”

“There’s been another victim,” Gillenormand said and if he had sounded any more gleeful Enjolras would have punched him then and there. He didn’t though and that at least spoke for quite the qualities at anger management.

Grantaire gasped, a perfect imitation of the sound from earlier but before he could say anything Enjolras raised his hand stopping him. “And what does that have to do with my client?” he asked calmly and was glad when Javert answered.

“We’re just here for a few questions,” the older man said matter-of-factly.

Grantaire opened the door wider so Javert and - unfortunately - Gillenormand could step inside. When the door closed behind them Grantaire reluctantly asked, “Who is it?” As if he didn’t want to hear the answer. Enjolras couldn’t blame him.

“Lousion Piorry.”

Grantaire’s face fell and Enjolras had to fight the impulse to hug him, say some nonsense about how it was going to be okay even though he knew it wasn’t.

Javert’s voice was a tone softer when he continued, “She was found in her apartment, shot multiple times probably around 10pm yesterday. A neighbour who had a spare key found her in the morning.”

It didn’t seem like Grantaire was listening to him, too silent, too shocked, but he replied when Javert asked, “You were a friend of Miss Piorry?”

“Friend might stretch it,” he said absently and ran a hand over his face breathing out slowly. After that he seemed more focused on the people around him again looking up at the detective. “I mean, we knew each other well yes, but I haven’t seen her in... in a month or something like that.”

“How did you know her?” Gillenormand continued, twirling his mustache casually around his finger in a way that made Enjolras want to vomit. Javert pulled out a notepad and began scribbling something down while Grantaire’s eyes grew a couple of degrees colder when he turned to the Sergeant.

“We went to art school together in Paris,” he answered curtly and Enjolras inconspicuously stepped closer to where he sat on the sofa. For moral support, he told himself, not in case someone was going to try punching someone else. Verbally or physically.

“And why did she come to New York?”

Grantaire’s tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Why do people come to New York? Live the American Dream, make their way, be free, live their lives.” The last words were only bitter and Enjolras darted a warning look at him that made Grantaire take a deep breath.

He sounded more collected again when he continued, “She got in touch with me about half a year ago and asked if I could help her. I got her in contact with some people, got her to settle in and stuff.”

“Did you help her because you two were involved?”

Grantaire’s jaw clenched. “We _weren’t_. Not in Paris, not when she came here if that’s what you wanted to ask.”

“Then why did you help her?”

“Listen,” he started and the first word made it perfectly clear that it wasn’t just an empty phrase. “I know what it’s like. You come to a new country down on your luck and suddenly there are people around who try and tell you everything about you is wrong. The way you speak, the way you dress, the way you _look._ It’s not easy. It is anything _but_ easy. The world is a cruel place, that’s the way it is. You’re just trying to find a way to live and in the end, it doesn’t even matter, it’s good for nothing. You break your neck simply living. I know I got lucky here, god knows for what it’s worth or how long it is going to last but most people don’t. Louison asked for help. So I helped her so she wouldn’t end up another broken dream somewhere in a ditch of great old New York City.”

Enjolras was torn between admiration and fierce objection and ended up saying nothing at all.

He stared, probably looking really stupid, at Grantaire who wasn’t looking away from Gillenormand who managed to look at the same time incredibly uncomfortable and incredibly pissed off.

Javert cleared his throat. Enjolras wasn’t sure but it sounded like he mumbled something like “Kids these days,” under his breath before he asked factually, “From Miss Piorry’s bank account it appears you helping her included lending her money as well, is that correct?”

Grantaire’s eyes darted to the older Detective. He frowned when he replied, “Yeah, a bit. It’s not a big deal, it’s not like I need most of it anyway.”

Enjolras made a mental note to ask about that later. He knew that some people made a lot of money with art, he didn’t know how much Grantaire earned and he probably shouldn’t judge it by the state of his worn-out hoodies.

But wherever there was a lot of money, there were people who didn’t like something about that. And money, especially when it was a larger amount, was always a motive worth considering.

He didn’t seem to be the only one thinking that because Gillenormand turned to Grantaire again. “Did she pay you back?” Enjolras didn’t like his tone.

“No, she hasn’t,” Grantaire said slowly, his eyes narrowing.

And the edge of a smile on the other man’s face then was definitely smug.

“Did you know that she was found with two packed suitcases and a plane ticket back to France in an otherwise completely empty apartment?”

Enjolras got a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“What?” Grantaire breathed out disbelievingly and Gillenormand’s eyes lit up triumphantly.

“Where were you yesterday between 9 and 11pm?”

“I was here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Or did you find out that she was going to leave and then got angry because of the way she used you and never gave anything back so you brutally killed her before she -”

“Don’t answer that,” Enjolras cut in before the other man even got the chance to finish. He had been going for cold harshness but he knew he sounded mostly disgusted but didn’t have it in him to care right then.

The other man ignored him focused on Grantaire who looked back and forth between Gillenormand and Enjolras, absolutely shocked.

“Or did she get knew too much about you that you had to kill her? Like Floréal Cortot?”

“Don’t answer that,” Enjolras repeated glaring at the sergeant and put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder before he could stop himself. Grantaire looked up at him with wide blue and green eyes.

“I didn’t kill her. Or Floréal.” The panic in his voice made Enjolras want to wipe that stupid smirk off Gillenormand’s face in any way possible but over the years he had come to the conclusion that if he was to punch every prejudiced idiot in the world he wouldn’t get to sleep at all anymore.

“I know,” Enjolras said softly and squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder once before dropping his hand and turning to the two policemen.

Javert looked like he would rather be at any place else in the world but Enjolras ignored him instead focusing on the younger blonde whose mustache was quivering like a pale eel on dry land.

“You asked your questions. I’m not going to let you upset my client by falsely accusing him of crimes he didn’t commit because you cooked up some ludicrous motives. You may come back if you have _actual_ evidence. Or a search warrant. Which I doubt you will get without, you know, actual evidence.”

The other man’s expression darkened. “When we find anything,” he spat out, his face turning an unattractive shade of blotchy red, “and I’m not saying if, your _client_ will be locked away behind bars for the rest of his life. Where he belongs.”

“Because he’s supposed to be a criminal?” Enjolras asked dryly. “Or because he happens not to be a white heterosexual American?”

“What are you implying?”

Enjolras smiled. “I’m not implying. Now,” he said leaving no room for objection, “I will ask you one more time, _politely_ , to leave.”

“We will be in contact if there’s anything new,” Javert said awkwardly over his shoulder before closing the door. Enjolras let out the breath he had been holding as soon as the door fell shut.

Grantaire abruptly stood up and wordlessly walked over to a small cupboard in the corner of the room pulling out a bottle of what Enjolras was pretty sure was whisky.

He glanced at Enjolras before uncapping the bottle without further ado.

“Don’t judge me,” he mumbled before taking a swig straight from the bottle.

Enjolras didn’t say anything.

 

***

 

About ten minutes later Enjolras sat on the sofa in Grantaire’s living room with a cup of coffee in his hands that had in big bold letters printed on the words ‘ _IF YOU SEE SOMETHING SAY NOTHING AND DRINK TO FORGET_ ’.

He wasn’t sure if it was Grantaire’s idea of a pretty morbid joke or just the only cup in the whole flat that was available for usage. The other man didn’t seem to have a problem drinking straight from the bottle but after making a disgusted face and muttering, “I don’t even like whiskey,” under his breath he had switched to a quite fancy looking bottle of red wine that he had pulled out from under the sofa. As if that was completely normal but well, Enjolras wasn’t going to question anyone’s living arrangements if he was hardly able to keep his own place in check without the help of a mustard-yellow loving poet without recognizable sleep schedule.

He supposed he should feel out of place dressed in suit, black oxfords and the first tie he had grabbed out of his closet in the morning that was now hanging loosely around his neck.

Grantaire’s flat was even more of a mess than his own but instead of books, folders and files, it was cluttered with things of half of which Enjolras with the best will in the world couldn’t figure out what anyone would need them for. It was like someone had taken the contents of a couple of suburban garage sales and simply dropped them off without bothering to sort out anything. Enjolras spotted at least three garden goblins, an actual phonograph that looked like it was at least a century old, a couple of stacks of VCR cassettes all over the place. He didn’t know people even still owned VCR cassettes.

And yet for some reason the whole place was oddly charming and when Grantaire sat down next to him, barefoot, in another threadbare pullover that hugged his frame loosely and black sweatpants that looked as comfortable as they looked old, Enjolras couldn’t help but think that it fit in a way, not just the messiness but the complexity, the hidden corners.

Most people were open books and if they weren’t it mostly didn’t take much more than a little digging and observation skills to figure out the most important bits but with Grantaire Enjolras felt like he hadn’t got any step closer to understanding the man since the first time they had met.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was not only disappointed because that would have made his job a lot easier.

“What do you want to know?”

Grantaire’s voice ripped Enjolras out of his own whirlwind of thoughts.

“What do you mean?” he frowned and Grantaire shrugged.

“You just look like you’re thinking too much.”

Enjolras huffed but it wasn’t unfriendly, simply resigned. “I guess I do sometimes.”

 

And at other times he didn’t think at all. Maybe he should consider trying to steer a healthy middle course.

 

He sighed before saying, “You know I can’t force you to tell me anything you don’t want to. And I’m not going to. I’m just saying that all of this is pretty messed up and if there’s anything you can think of that might help me understand your case better, you can tell me. I just want to help.” He didn’t say ‘you’ even though he meant it.

From the way the look of Grantaire’s eyes bored into his own Enjolras was pretty sure he understood it anyway. He didn’t look away until the other man did leaning back into the sofa and he seemed a bit more relaxed, more comfortable this time than in Enjolras’s apartment. Or maybe it was because in the short time they had known each other he was already getting more comfortable talking to Enjolras.

Grantaire sighed heavily.

“I was born in a like incredibly small town thing in the South of France, nothing special.”

“You don’t have to-,” Enjolras started but Grantaire cut him off quickly.

“I want to,” he said insisting and Enjolras silenced and for once, concentrated simply on listening.

“Right, so let’s keep it short, my mum’s Moroccan, born and raised there, my dad’s probably one of the most boring french guys who likes his wine a bit much. They met at Uni in Toulouse, got married, my mom got pregnant, they bought a house, you know your whole dull, clichéd story.” He huffed and Enjolras couldn’t help but feel like it sounded not only bitter but a little bit wistful.

“It’s not like I had a terrible, troubled childhood that I had to compensate with art or whatever. It wasn’t bad. It was just… boring,” he shrugged. “So I left, went to Paris, first opportunity I got, got accepted into college of art on a scholarship but it, I don’t know, it just didn’t really work out probably because I was stupid and naive. You kind of expect that as a student you can just do what you love, what you want to do, go around, live your life and be who you want to be. Or whatever. Instead I worked my ass off to stay on the scholarship, plus odd jobs every now and then because Paris is fucking expensive. That’s how I met Louison, we were working in this coffee shop together, she was doing Fine Arts, I was doing photography, we got on. She wasn’t much better off as well and it’s nice to have someone who understands that you have rent, food and heating and some months one just had to bite the dust. So, in general it wasn’t good. And Paris? I had dreamed of Paris for years, I hated the small towns, the countryside and Paris was beautiful, of fucking course it was. But it was like something sucking the blood out of your veins and you just stood by and let it happen.

I got out on a whim actually after let’s just call it a particularly bad point that just made me realize that it - I - couldn’t go on like that. I signed up for this project, a travel agency looking for landscape and city photographers where you could join a group of people, travel from place to place and take photos. So I quit college convincing my dad that I was _completely_ useless, not just a little bit and left.”

He shrugged again. Enjolras didn’t know if he even realized it.

Grantaire stared at some point in the distance with even more distant eyes and Enjolras bit down on his lip to keep himself from interrupting until Grantaire continued. “It was a good thing in the end, I mean the money was terrible and I’ve slept in some places you don’t even want to know about but I didn’t care. It was a way out, of sorts and that was what mattered. And what can I say, I saw some great places, met some great people, figured out landscape photography really isn’t my thing.”

And he laughed a little at that and it was so surprising that Enjolras couldn’t help but let out a small huff on his own. Grantaire looked at him from the corner of his eye and Enjolras was even more surprised when he stood up abruptly, bottle still in his hand making his way over to one of the overcrowded shelves and without much time wasted on searching pulled out a frame from a small gray card box.

After he sat back down he handed Enjolras the photo of eight people in front of the Grand Canyon, Grantaire, a few years younger, standing to the left next to a stocky brown-haired guy. His arm was slung around the shoulders of a young woman to his right with black hair and dark eyes.

Enjolras did a double-take. “Wait, is that Éponine? Thénardier?”

Grantaire looked at him surprised and nodded. “Yeah, you know Éponine?”

“Yes, I’ve known her for ages,” Enjolras said, disbelieving. “Her parents were well, New York high society if you want to call it like that, before-,” he stopped but Grantaire nodded.  
“Before the bribery scandal, I know about that one.”

Right, if he knew Éponine she had probably told him. Enjolras was still taken aback that Grantaire didn’t only know Bossuet but another friend of Enjolras as well, even though Éponine and his friendship had always been difficult from time to time, too many bad memories surrounding it.

“So I take it your parents are part of that ‘high society’ too?” Grantaire asked and his tone was light and still Enjolras felt his face drop before he could control his expression.

“My father was.” And then, he didn’t know why, he added, “He died, a couple of years ago.”

For a moment he was disgusted by his own voice, how cold it sounded.

But Grantaire simply nodded, no ‘I’m sorry’, just a nod, acknowledging the information without judgement and Enjolras was sure that if he had reacted any different he wouldn’t have said another word on that matter but like that he found himself almost unintentionally continuing.

“We weren’t on good terms. We never really were. I think I was too french for his liking, my mum was French, he was American. I actually lived in Paris for eight years until I was twelve and I loved it but my father insisted on going back to New York after my mum died. In retrospect I think he just couldn’t stand it. And I couldn’t stand him, for a lot of reasons.”

Realizing Grantaire was looking at him Enjolras abruptly realized that he had practically hijacked the whole conversation and quickly backtracked, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump that on you, it doesn’t matter.”

“‘Cause it does.”

Grantaire didn’t look away and Enjolras swallowed unconsciously before clearing his throat pointedly, the sound loud in the room. To his surprise he wasn’t too freaked out about telling the other man about his childhood, it felt more like they were in a weird limbo where both of them disregarded the fact that they were actually almost strangers. But the moment felt intense in a way that made Enjolras desperately wanting to change the subject.

“So, you know Éponine then. I knew she left for a few months after what happened but I didn’t really know where to.”

Grantaire thankfully didn’t acknowledge the brilliantly obvious change of subject and simply went with it. “Well, she jumped on up in Vancouver, never really said how she got there as well and then she dropped off again here.”

“And you did too?”

“Yeah, three of us did, Éponine, me and that guy Léon,” he pointed at the man next to him in the photo, “He was okay, bit weird, I didn’t keep in contact with him.”

“Why did you stay here?”

Grantaire huffed and his jaw twitched a little as if he was trying to keep too many emotions from showing on his face. “As I said, the last remaining scraps of idealism, I suppose. If Paris didn't work out then surely New York had to, right? City of liberty and chance and all that jazz.”

He sounded a lot less sarcastic as Enjolras had expected, more bitter. “I spend the first month on Ponine’s couch basically just to sleep, every day I was walking around the city sometimes till morning, taking pictures, getting drunk, trying to take everything in. Paris is a big city, of course but it’s different somehow. It’s like flowing through the streets with the stream of people and here everything is bright and chaotic and loud. When you close your eyes in the night it’s still there, that noise, that inability to stay completely still. It was everything I never had when I was young and I loved it, still do. I think I was simultaneously better and worse the first weeks, just careless. Guess because I really had nothing much to lose.

One evening I walked down a street in Brooklyn and the sun was starting to set and I was following this guy, not in a stalkerish way, mind you, just in an artistically interested way. And he was absolutely wrecked you know, coffee spilled over his shirt, jacket torn, black eye for whatever reason. And it was winter and suddenly he stopped next to a house entrance where an old man was sitting, homeless probably, and he pulled a sandwich out of his bag and gave it to him. And before walking away he leaned down again, pulled off his gloves and gave them away too. Just like that. And I took a photo and stood there for probably a whole minute before I ran after him. I really don’t know what I was thinking but I started talking, total gibberish probably and at one point he just goes like, ‘Hey man, you clearly need someone to talk to and I’m totally your guy but could we do this somewhere warm because it’s fucking freezing.’” He smiled. “And that’s how I met Bossuet.”

Enjolras couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. Of course.

Grantaire’s smile widened a little bit. “The point is, that photograph was kind of the best thing that happened to me since I got here. Not just because I met Bossuet and everyone who came along with that but also because I met Floréal not much later, in a bar actually and we started talking. I told her what I do and she told me that she was an agent so when she offered to show my work to some people of course I didn’t say no. And two days later I got a call from that huge gallery uptown Manhattan that they loved the photos, that one of Bossuet in particular and suddenly I had a contract, an exhibition in planning and a kick-ass agent. It all started spiralling down, or up more likely, from there before I really know what was going on.

And Floréal actually managed to keep my face out of it mostly. She always said that the ‘mystery’ adds to the whole image thing of the mysterious artist figure or whatever but I’m only glad I don’t have to deal with people who want something from me because well, they always do. She kept me out of all the business parts, the whole mess of the thing really but the more it took off the more people want to know about you and they’re not just going to leave you alone. They expect there’s more to it, a story, an ideal, ideas when it’s literally just being a bit better at observing than your regular guy walking down the street and pressing a button at the right moment. Everyone expects some great person some… _something_.”

He trailed off and Enjolras almost said without thinking that he _was_ because he couldn’t understand how anyone could not think that but Grantaire continued before Enjolras could. “It’s nothing special you know. I’m not. I was lucky when it mattered, otherwise I’m just another useless person who has nothing to look forward to but a future of alcoholism and self-loathing. And the worst thing is, I don’t even have a reason. It’s just the way it is. Just like that.” Shrugging he looked down at the bottle he was still holding in his hand, his thumb tracing the edge of the label.

Enjolras swallowed. “You know you’re allowed to be in a bad place even if others seem to be worse off. It’s not a competition or about who has more justification to feel bad. Everyone deserves a chance to be happy, that’s what matters. And you still have that chance in the future.”

For a moment Grantaire’s finger stilted. He didn’t look up. He licked his lips and Enjolras was sure he was about to reply something but then he closed his mouth again, stayed silent until he sighed. His voice was bitter when he finally said, “Well, Floréal and Louison don’t.”

It wasn’t what Enjolras had expected and he was sure it wasn’t what Grantaire had meant to say first but nonetheless, Enjolras tried not to wince but he couldn’t do anything to hide the fact that he had no idea how to answer. So he said nothing.

Again.

He didn’t like the feeling of already getting used to it.

 

***

 

“How is he doing?” Courfeyrac asked quietly when Enjolras stepped out of the door of his bureau where Grantaire had fallen asleep on the sofa.

After their conversation - and for some reason Enjolras felt like the word wasn’t really enough for it - they had gone to the office to consult about the case with Courfeyrac. It had been helpful to get another pair of eyes on it even though Grantaire hadn’t told the whole story of his past again and Enjolras hadn’t as well.

They had started putting together as list of people that might have something to do with the case that they were planning on handing over to the police.

Enjolras and Marius then had a meeting with another client that Enjolras had a hard time focusing on and when he had come back to his office he had found Grantaire fallen asleep on the terribly uncomfortable couch. He had looked too peaceful though, calm and Enjolras had simply silently continued to work without disturbing the other man’s sleep until the dull ache in his temples got too much.

“How do you think?” Enjolras sighed and Courfeyrac smiled sympathetically.

“The poor soul.”

“I know.”

Enjolras tried to ignore the beginnings of his headache. He really needed a cup of coffee. Or three. Or less drama.

And definitely less of Courfeyrac’s green eyes looking at him knowingly.

He sighed again, heavier this time. “Come on, go ahead.”

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows rose a little. “You care about him,” he then said gently. It wasn’t a question.

Enjolras had expected something like that. “I care about getting him out of this mess. He’s innocent. And it’s my job to make sure everyone knows that.”

“Okay,” Courfeyrac said but Enjolras was not foolish enough to believe that would be it.

He only managed to count to three in his head before Courfeyrac continued, “You’d tell me if it was different though? Not just because I’m your friend even though I hope that would be enough reason but if that isn’t enough you know that as your business partner I should know if there’s something that could interfere with the way you do your job.”

Enjolras let out a laugh that didn’t quite sound like one. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you questioning my work ethics.”

Courfeyrac shook his head and his expression was unfamiliarly serious. It was an expression that Enjolras had not seen often in the whole time they had been friends, a soft but undeniable worry that made him look older all the sudden.

“I don’t. But I also know that there’s nothing more important to you than the people that you care about. And I love you for that.”

Enjolras tried to swallow around the sudden feeling of tightness in his throat. Courfeyrac only worried about him, of course he did, even though there was no reason for that because yes Enjolras cared about Grantaire but simply because he was a good person, a person that had already gone through a lot even if he tried to play it off. Nothing else.

Nothing else, he thought as hard as he could.

He managed to smile. “I love you too, Courf.”

And just like that Courfeyrac’s expression changed, the soft smile on his face turning into a cheeky smirk, his eyes bright. “Good,” he said. Then he turned around and strolled, hips swinging, to the kitchen and the coffee machine.

 

***

 

Three cups of coffee and some hours of going over case files that had started to blur in front of his eyes later Enjolras decided after re-reading the same sentence five times that he should probably call it a day.

Courfeyrac and Marius had left earlier, Courfeyrac with a soft look on his face, Marius just looking confused at the sleeping man on Enjolras’s couch but confused was kind of the default setting of Marius’s face so nothing to worry about there.

As Enjolras was debating if and how he was supposed to wake up Grantaire he gradually found himself drifting into simply looking at the other man until he suddenly stirred as if the sudden silence of Enjolras’s thoughts had woken him.

He blinked his eyes open, blue and green, and slowly sat up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sleep in on you. Again.” His voice was slightly scratchy and Enjolras startled out of his thoughts smiled.

“Don’t worry. Even though I’m surprised you managed to sleep that long, that sofa is a nightmare to sleep on, trust me, I know.”

Grantaire seemed a little bit more awake after that. “Do you sleep here often?”

Enjolras sighed and stashed away the case filed. “More often than probably healthy. I was just planning on waking you up anyway though, I was about to go home. Do you want me to drop you off at Bossuet’s?

As soon as he had said the words Grantaire tensed. He tried to play it off by casually standing up, stretching his arms but maybe he was too tired to make it more difficult to see through his light tone when he said, “Nah, I don’t want to worry him and the others. But thanks.”

“You know, if you don’t want to go home,” Enjolras heard himself saying without thinking, “I have a spare room?”

The flash of gratitude in Grantaire’s eyes before he even answered made it easier for Enjolras to shove the thought of Courfeyrac’s worried face out of his mind.

 

***

 

“Enjolras! You’re back early, I was just about to head out. I made you a casserole and -”

Jehan stopped mid-sentence as they noticed Grantaire standing behind Enjolras in the door to his apartment.

They cocked their head with a smile that was not particularly surprised, only amused. They were wearing a powder blue sweater that was about three sizes too big.

“And who might this be?” they smirked and Enjolras rolled his eyes. God, he was tired.

“Jehan, that’s Grantaire,” he said gesturing vaguely. “Grantaire, this is Jehan Prouvraire, my personal household spirit. I don’t know what they’re doing with the rest of their time.”

Jehan’s smile widened. “You couldn’t handle that knowledge anyway, sweetheart.”

They shook Grantaire’s hand enthusiastically and looked him up and down with a sense of curiosity in their light brown eyes.

“It is very nice to meet you Grantaire,” they said then immediately asked, “So you are an artist?”

Grantaire’s expression turned into one of surprise. “Uhm, yeah, how do you know?”

Jehan, clearly pleased with the reaction, winked. “It’s the eyes.”

Grantaire looked even more confused.

Enjolras sighed heavily. “Bahorel told you, didn’t he? You two are the worst gossips I know.”

The poet’s delighted laugh chimed through the room, bright and ringing. “Honestly, I don’t take offense there. It’s fun. You should try it,” they grinned at Enjolras then turned back to Grantaire.

“So. _Grant-aire_ , hmm?” Jehan’s smile widened even more. “You don’t happen to do photography?”

“As I said, gossips,” Enjolras said again but Jehan waved their hand at him dismissively still looking at Grantaire who seemed more and more confused.

“That’s quite fascinating. Oh, Enjolras, you _have_ to show him the photography you bought, it’s a great piece. I insist,” they said firmly. “Or I’m taking back my casserole.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes but knowing Jehan it was safe to say he really didn’t need to try and protest.

“Alright,” he agreed and Jehan smiled brilliantly.

“Great!” They exclaimed and turning to Grantaire added, “Feel free to tell me if he doesn’t, he can be awfully secretive from time to time.”

 

And with that they happily sauntered through the door with a last wink over their shoulder.

 

“Your friends are,” Grantaire started and paused obviously looking for the right expression, “Quite the characters.”

Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh at that. “You’re telling me.”

He toed off his shoes and unceremoniously dropped his coat over the sofa. “Come on then, I wouldn’t be sure that Jehan doesn’t have some magical way of finding out what I’m doing and I’m not going to get on their bad side.”

Grantaire followed him with a quiet, amused huff while Enjolras tried not to freak out over the fact that the other man was going to be in his bedroom. At least he didn’t have to worry there might be a mess, not if Jehan had only just left.

“They didn’t look that intimidating,” Grantaire remarked.

“That’s just disguise, believe me. Don’t let them fool you. They’re more than a sweet, badly dressed poet making casseroles. They’re the last one you expect to be terrifying but really, they are.”

He opened the door to his room letting Grantaire step through. Gesturing at the photography on the wall next to his desk, Enjolras tried to ignore the sudden feeling of nervousness.

Which was ridiculous anyway. At least that was what he tried to tell himself.

“So, there it is. Care for giving an artistic evaluation?” he said clearly aiming for a joking tone but Grantaire didn’t laugh.

He simply blinked staring at the picture before slowly turning to Enjolras. “Honestly?”

His voice was disbelieving, almost shocked.

Enjolras frowned. “Yeah, why not?”

The other man’s head jerked like he was about to shake his head, his eyes flickering back and forth between Enjolras and the picture. Eventually his mouth curled up into a smile. “You know what, I’d rather hear what you think. I mean I could talk contrasts and composition or whatever but that’s really just boring, isn’t it?”

Enjolras huffed. “Are artist not able to see beauty beyond contrast and composition or whatever?” he teased lightly but at the words Grantaire’s expression turned unexpectedly serious.

“Maybe,” he said and it sounded distant all of sudden. “I haven't’ really thought about that.”

Enjolras decided it might be better not to push the subject so he simply turned to the photography.

“Well, I can’t talk about any of that,” he shrugged. “But I like it. I like looking at it, just like that. I look at it and I feel like I could just step inside and it would be a little bit cold and a little bit wet from the rain and there would be cars rushing in the distance. And I could walk like that man there, I would look up and walk on like that no matter what, doing whatever it is I stood up for in the morning without hesitation.”

He stopped and suddenly his throat felt dry, tight. He could feel Grantaire’s eyes on him but Enjolras didn’t look away from the picture that was becoming familiar like it had been hanging there on his wall for years not only for a little more than a week. His own voice sounded foreign in his ears when he continued, more quiet, hesitant. “I’m just… tired sometimes. And it scares me. I’m scared that one day I’m going to stop believing that it matters what I do, what _I_ stand up for every day, that it actually makes a difference. That I’m going to stop trying one day.”

“You won’t,” Grantaire said quietly and even though it was not much more than a whisper it sounded more sure than anything he had said before.

Enjolras didn’t take his eyes away from the picture. “You did.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth but Grantaire only huffed. “Yeah, I suppose I did.” His voice sounded bitter and Enjolras swallowed harshly.

“I’m not scared when I look at it.”

 

They didn’t say anything for a long time after that but Enjolras felt like the air was thick of thoughts that none of them knew how to put in words.

Later he slept uneasily wondering if he was only imagining being able to hear Grantaire breathing in the next room.

 

***

 

Enjolras was restless.

He had been feeling restless the entire day ever since leaving for the office that morning after Grantaire had insisted on taking the subway to his apartment not wanting Enjolras to make the detour.

He had taken the car anyway. Just in case something happened. Not that he hoped anything would.

It had been a very usual Saturday though, with Enjolras going over some files that had been set aside during the week and Courfeyrac sleeping off his hangover on the much more comfortable couch in his office that sadly was too short for Enjolras to fit on.

Marius had stopped by earlier in the morning to sort through some letters and make sure Courfeyrac stayed hydrated.

About half past six when Enjolras was still desperately pretending to get some work done Combeferre had saved him by showing up with take out food that smelled too delicious to keep trying.

Courfeyrac, perfectly sobered up as well as well rested from sleeping the whole day, enthusiastically retold some story about the previous night that Enjolras stopped actively listening to after about a minute.

“- and then I chucked that stupid Cosmopolitan right into his stupid face, it was amazing.”

Combeferre who had listened the whole time laughed, a quiet and gentle sound that was one of Enjolras’s favorite sounds in the world but he couldn’t even find it in him to enjoy it properly because his leg was shaking nervously, had been the whole day really.

“Enjolras?”

Combeferre’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“Is everything alright?”

He knew that tone, it was the ‘I know you’re not alright but I’m sensitive enough to not say it outright but you better tell me what’s going on anyway because don’t you think I will let it go’ - tone. Courfeyrac had the same tone. It was very specific.

Before Enjolras could fail to attempt talking himself out of it with some vague and absolutely unconvincing response, the door to the conference room burst open revealing a heavily breathing, red-faced Marius.

“Enjolras, you need to -” He stopped mid-exclamation, his expression turning from upset to utterly confused. “Why are you on the table?”

Courfeyrac was about to answer but Marius cut him off before he could start. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter right now, you have to see this.”

He grabbed the remote control of the TV hanging on the wall of the conference room and switched to a 24/7 New York news channel.

Enjolras’s feeling of dread that had been rapidly rising since Marius had entered the room dropped to an all-consuming horrified disbelief at the images on the screen.

He almost missed Marius next words. “They’re all over the internet, they’re bringing it everywhere.”

Enjolras had seen the pictures of the crime scenes, both of them, the typical analytical photographs as if the blood and dead bodies were nothing but objects depicted precisely, efficiently. He was more used to it than he wanted to.

But the pictures on the screen, even though they were showing the exact same scenes, made the blood in his veins run ice cold.

“Jesus Christ,” someone breathed, Enjolras didn’t know who, maybe it was him, maybe someone else, he didn’t know.

He knew nothing about art. But he could tell that the pictures, black and white, were taken to try and succeed in capturing the sickening beauty, morbid and macabre, of the violent death like one would try and capture the beauty of a wilting flower.

Enjolras forced himself to look away, concentrate on the newscaster instead trying to stop ignore the bile biting in his throat.

He later almost wished he hadn’t.

“- shocking pictures were published earlier on the website of the famous New York photography artist only known under the alias ‘R’. A statement has yet to be released -”

Enjolras only realized he had stood up when he was already on his feet. His face was burning as if someone had slapped him, and honestly, that was exactly how it felt.

Grantaire.

Of fucking course.

“I have to go,” he said already grabbing his coat before anyone was really able to protest. He was out of the room ignoring Courfeyrac calling his name.

 

***

 

Enjolras didn’t even wait until Grantaire could open the door more than a crack before barging in. Driving all the way to the other man’s apartment really hadn’t been the best idea to take away his anger, humiliation and whatever else made Enjolras’s head reel. He didn’t even care. He was furious.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped and Grantaire’s confused face only made him _more_ angry. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down. “Were you planning on telling me?”

“About what?” Grantaire managed to get out and Enjolras couldn’t help but stare at him disbelievingly.

“R?”

He didn’t know what kind of response he had expected, laughing maybe because he hadn’t figured it out earlier, because he had been blind and stupid even though it had been what was probably a two-minute Google research away from him. Maybe he had hoped for denial because it would have been another damn good reason to be angry.

He hadn’t expected Grantaire’s confused expression to simply turn resigned.

“Right,” he sighed heavily and slowly closed the door.

Enjolras waited but he didn’t say anything else and for some reason the silence was even more infuriating than any flimsy excuse would have been.

“Right?” he repeated incredulously. “Is that everything?”

Grantaire surprised him once more by snapping back and his voice was sharp, dripping with sarcasm. “What do you want me to say, Enjolras? I’m sorry I’m not what you expected?”

An equally heated response died in Enjolras’s mouth.

“What?” he said instead but Grantaire’s jaw only tensed as he stubbornly crossed his arms in front of his chest refusing to say anything else.

The silence suddenly made Enjolras realize that he had been more affected by being angry about the artist holding back that one crucial information about himself instead of shocked about the incriminating photographs all over the internet and news which was even more crucial for the case.

The realization felt like yet another slap in the face.

“You know what, I don’t even care,” Enjolras lied through his teeth. “We really have a much bigger problem right now.”

Grantaire frowned skeptically. “And what is that?”

“Pictures of the crime scenes have been published on your website and it’s all over the news. Not just pictures. Artistic ones, like staged. They could as well have your name plastered right on them.”

The other man’s expression of horror was no satisfaction for Enjolras’s anger and he felt sick immediately for even thinking like that. The anger melted into thin air.

He was about to say something, anything else when there was a knock at the door.

 

“Mister Grantaire,” Javert’s voice sounded sternly, “Open the door!”

 

“Let me handle this. Don’t say a word unless I tell you to,” Enjolras hissed and Grantaire only nodded frozen on spot.

Enjolras took a deep breath steadying himself before opening the door to Javert and Gillenormand.

“Detective. Sergeant.”

“Oh you got to be kidding me,” the younger man exclaimed, mustache quivering angrily.  Javert didn’t even look surprised.

“I’m sure you’re here because of the photos,” Enjolras continued calmer than he felt. “We just received the news as well.”

Even though Gillenormand looked like he was about to explode Javert was faster. “Please Enjolras, you can’t be serious.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at the older policeman. “I am dead serious. And if _you_ think for one moment that my client published photographs of his supposed victims so everyone can see it was him then that’s the most ridiculous accusation you have come up with so far. And that have been a lot.”

“Who knows what’s going on in that sick brain of his,” Gillenormand seized glaring at Grantaire over Enjolras’s shoulder.

Enjolras voice was dry but not any less cold, dangerously low. “Careful. You don’t want me suing you for verbal harassment.”

“I want _him_ where he belongs.”

“The only place my client belongs is protective custody because in case you have noticed, there’s a murderer running around who is obviously trying to frame him!”

“Frame him?!” the other man exploded.

Enjolras replied very calmly, “Exactly.”

Before Gillenormand could say anything else Javert explained, “The pictures were published on the website two hours ago from a phone that has been located ten minutes from this apartment. We are not going to endanger more lives. We can do this civilized or not but that’s enough to stand in a court.”

Enjolras straightened his back, determined even though his head was screaming at him to stop, that no, this was a terrible, terrible idea.

“It isn’t,” he said firmly.

Javert sighed, the same pained sound Enjolras was used to. “You know it is.”

“It’s not because he was with me.”

Enjolras couldn’t see Grantaire’s face behind him but he could practically feel the look of blue and green eyes boring into the back of his head.

Enjolras forced himself to concentrate on the taken aback faces of the policemen and carried on, steadily, “I was with my client since yesterday morning. We have been working on figuring out who of the people he knows might be associated with the case because, if I may be frank, the police is not doing a very good job so far. He then stayed in one of my guest rooms overnight because he was, rightly so, not very keen on staying alone in his apartment with a murderer on the run. He will confirm that this was exactly what happened, right?”

Enjolras didn’t turn around. He almost didn’t hear Grantaire’s voice over the sound of his rapidly beating heart.  

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough.

The practiced smile Enjolras put on was triumphant and cruel. “You don’t have anything more on my client than you did yesterday. Which is to say, nothing.”

“Don’t be so sure about that.” Gillenormand’s voice was pure venom. His face had gone red, a stark contrast to his fibrous blond hair. “With those pictures we have enough for a search warrant especially now that the public is in on this. So believe me, when we’re back we will find the proof to send that pathetic liar behind bars for good and it’ll wipe that smug smile right off your face, trust me.”

“Fortunately,” Enjolras said watching the blotchy redness expand to the other man’s neck in a sort of detached way, “I don’t put my trust in incompetence. Good evening gentlemen.”

The implication was clear as day and Gillenormand stormed off without another word, Javert following him with a long look at Enjolras that made him swallow harshly as he closed the door behind them.

“You-,” Grantaire stared but Enjolras cut him off briskly. Anger at himself mixed with the anger at the artist flaming up anew.

“Don’t,” he snapped and reached for his phone in the pocket of his coat. He had Courfeyrac’s number on speed dial and held the phone to his ear before Grantaire could say anything else.

Courfeyrac picked up after the first ring. “Enjolras? Is everything alright? Where are you?”

His friend’s voice sounded in his ear and Enjolras forced himself to take a deep breath before answering.

“Yeah, it’s fine, I’m at Grantaire’s.” He sounded a lot calmer than he had expected.

“Are they going to arrest him?”

“No, I got them off his back.”

Courfeyrac breathed out, relieved. “Good, that’s good.”

Enjolras couldn’t help but think that he wouldn’t sound that relieved if he had known _how_ exactly he had pulled that off.

“Are you staying?” Courfeyrac added as an afterthought.

“No, I’m not,” Enjolras replied curtly.

For what? More disappointment and lies? Definitely not.

He was feeling incredibly tired all of sudden. Still angry. But tired.

“Right,” Courfeyrac said and Enjolras knew he was sharing some kind of meaningful look with Combeferre at his end of the line. “Get home safely, okay?”

“I will, don’t worry.” He didn’t wait to hear if he had convinced Courfeyrac or anyone for that matter before hanging up.

 

The plan was to simply walk out of the door right then, less of a plan, more of an impulse, he had done his job, what he needed to do, more than that.

 

But he had taken Grantaire out of that equation, Grantaire who pushed the door shut as soon as Enjolras had gotten it open more than a crack, shaking hand on the handle.

 

The moment he turned around two things made the thoughts in his head, the furious words on the tip of his tongue stop, slithering to a halt. His breath got stuck in his throat.

 

First, Grantaire’s arm was outstretched, hand pressing against the door somewhere next to Enjolras’s head, effectively trapping him between the door and Grantaire without touching him at all but close enough that he could see what was the second, the untamed anger in the man’s eyes making them darker, dark, more green than blue.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” And even his voice was dark, low.

His words were like a bucket of ice cold water dropped over Enjolras’s head, soaking through his skin, into his blood, running through his veins and making his heart stand still for a second before it started beating so rapidly that he could feel it in his mouth.

His next words felt weirdly compressed, like someone was pressing his throat together. Grantaire wasn’t touching him. “But I did it. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

“You lying won’t change them believing I did all of this. They are still going to arrest me, they’re set on believing I’m guilty, that’s how it _is._ All you’re doing is sticking your own head out. I don’t need you to be playing martyr for me, Enjolras.”

“I’m doing my job!” he ground out through his teeth.

Grantaire scoffed. “Right, the oh so moral, upstanding defense attorney helping the people. Tell me, does that make you feel better about your life?” The words were sharp and cruel.

They were also rash, hasty, shaking. Like a wounded animal lashing out.

“Why do you have to be so difficult?”

The other man’s eyebrows rose disappearing under black curls. A laugh. “ _I_ am difficult?” He asked sarcastically, another laugh, depreciating and bitter.

And just like that, Enjolras snapped.

“Yes, yes you are. You - you’re absolutely maddening, you know that? You’re trying so hard to pretend you don’t give a shit about anything but guess what, you’re not convincing anyone and honestly, you can try as hard as you want, in the end, I think you’re not even convincing yourself. And you _still_ keep on doing it, like you don’t know that. It’s pathetic. You know it’s not a crime to care about something!”

“Do you?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Care.”

Grantaire’s voice was breathy, bitter. His eyes were full of hurt, uncertainty, and more bitterness. “Because you’ve been pretty set on the fact that the only reason you’re here is your job.”

The conviction with which he said the words making it clear that he believed every one of it was followed by a silence that wasn’t one because Enjolras could hear their breaths, ragged and his heart, beating fast, maybe not only his.

 

Obviously, Enjolras thought strangely calm, he was better at pretending than Grantaire.

 

“Of course I do.”

 

Grantaire blinked, surprised at the words. Or maybe he was surprised because there was nothing of anger left in Enjolras’s voice just softness. Maybe a little bit of sadness.

Enjolras was surprised of the anger. as well. Of the anger. But mostly about how much he meant it.

There was a mess in his head, of feelings, of questions, all of them confusing and unanswered.

But he meant it.

It took one second, one second in which Enjolras made what might turn out to be one of the worst decisions in his life. Or not worst. Most important.

And he could have pretended he didn’t really care when his eyes met Grantaire’s, when he reached out twisting his fingers in the fabric of the other man’s shirt, pulling him in.

And he could have pretended not to care, not even a little bit when he pressed their mouth together, Grantaire’s gasp adding to the list of sounds. The breathing, his heartbeat, the heartbeat he could feel under his fingertips.

And almost immediately, after the barest of hesitation, Grantaire kissed him back.

Enjolras melted against him.

It was a kiss that, in a matter of seconds, went from a single press of lips to lips to a raw, unnameable thing mirroring the chaos going on inside Enjolras’s head that was spinning so fast that he could feel his heartbeat in his temples. It was teeth and tongues, Grantaire letting his hands fall down to his waist to pull him closer, Enjolras twining his fingers through soft, wild curls.

He felt a surge of want, the same want that had been lying right under Enjolras’s skin, the whole time, when Grantaire’s fingers brushed the exposed skin of Enjolras’s throat resting one hand feather light on the top button of his shirt, a question, remarkably gentle in comparison to the way his other hand was holding on to Enjolras’s waist like a lifeline. His lips replaced his fingers on Enjolras’s neck, soft kisses nipping at skin every so often and Enjolras didn’t have enough breath for verbal confirmation, words feeling like nothing more than a distant unnecessity, so he tugged at the hem of Grantaire’s shirt, impatiently, letting his hands spell out what his mouth couldn’t, yes and more and _more._

Grantaire’s lips pressed into Enjolras’s skin where he could feel the smile, tangled in his blood.

 

***

 

Enjolras didn’t know why he woke up eventually but his inner clock told him that it was still in the earlier hours of the morning, a touch of sunlight falling weakly through the windows as he opened his eyes slowly.

The room was surprisingly bare in comparison to the rest of the apartment, simple furniture, a wardrobe, a chair with some clothes haphazardly thrown over the backrest, the bed with tangled, crisp white sheets.

It was calm, silent, almost pristine and Enjolras blush was a fleck of colour at the thought that he had been too distracted to notice any of it earlier, too tangled up in Grantaire to notice anything else of the world around him, them.

His eyes fell on the sleeping figure, more blotches, inky black and warm brown. One of Grantaire’s arms was loosely slung over Enjolras’s middle, his skin was soft against his own. Grantaire’s arm was covered in tiny moles scattered all the way up to his shoulders, back and Enjolras suddenly understood the awe with which Combeferre looked at the constellation of stars in the sky.

He carefully lifted Grantaire’s arm and quietly got out off the bed so he wouldn’t wake up the other man who was still sleeping calmly and peaceful. He found his underwear and shirt on the way to the kitchen having landed somewhere next to the sofa in the living room.

The floor was cool under his feet but then, he didn’t feel cold.

 

Enjolras felt utterly calm like the morning, surprising himself along the way.

 

He could have understood it if he had freaked out, it would have been a completely justifiable reaction but he didn’t.

The last night seemed like a simple consequence of everything else that had happened, an inevitability, no need on dwelling on the problems it brought along just then, no need to regret something that couldn’t be made undone.

He found the coffee machine in the kitchen, an ancient looking thing yet luckily simple to operate, the coffee effectively placed right next to it. As it ran through the machine with the familiar hiss, Enjolras smiled, just a little.

He heard the footsteps approaching and stopping at the kitchen door, waiting. Enjolras didn’t turn around until Grantaire’s voice, still a little rough from sleep, sounded through the peacefully crafted scenery.

“Morning,” he said and when Enjolras turned around the other man stood in the door almost as if he was hesitant to step in further. His hair was a tangled mess, his long lashes charcoal next to the brightness of his eyes and Enjolras smiled.

“Good morning.”

At that Grantaire carefully took a step forward and another, another until he was standing in front of Enjolras with a small, worried frown between his eyebrows.

Enjolras wanted to reach out and smooth it away so he did making Grantaire startle at the soft touch but he didn’t pull back. Enjolras leaned forward and touched their lips together in a kiss that was chaste and almost achingly sweet. It helped to drown out the whispers in his head that were waking up more and more wanting to tantalize him with his own doubts and insecurity.

Before the kiss could turn into something more than an easy press of lips that still made his heart race, Enjolras pulled back enough to whisper into the space between them.

“Do you have sugar?”

Grantaire’s eyes were flickering back and forth between Enjolras’s and his mouth.

He blinked. “Top shelf on the left.” He sounded distracted.

Enjolras stepped out of the other man’s personal space with a smile on his face that made Grantaire shake his head slowly.

“Tease,” he muttered under his breath, a half-hearted attempt at sullenness.

Enjolras smile widened. “Didn’t hear you complaining before.”

“Wasn’t complaining,” Grantaire huffed making his way past Enjolras to get two cups from the dish rack and probably to hide his own grin.

Enjolras turned his back to him to open the cupboard to find a battered flowered ceramic pot with sugar in it at the top left. When he reached out his fingers brushed not only the pot though but something else as well, something smooth, hard.

Frowning he reached around the pot and his hand closed around a solid grip.

The smile dropped from Enjolras’s face, everything around him drowned in a white noise except for the familiar sinking feeling in his stomach like he had been flying and then forcefully pulled back to the ground again fast and merciless.

The gun was pitch-black except for the lone splotches of dried blood along the barrel.

Enjolras stared at it unwilling to comprehend the meaning behind it, unwilling but unable to stop anyway, stop the crushing weight of the gun in his hand, the even more crushing weight of realization.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire’s voice sounded behind his back.

He turned around marionette-like, kept upright by a strength that he didn’t recognize as his own. There was a smile on Grantaire’s face, that _smile,_ until his eyes fell on Enjolras’s hand.

His face became utterly pale, Enjolras hadn’t known it could turn that pale. It didn’t look right.

He didn’t know how long they stood there staring, Enjolras didn’t know how he looked like.

Shocked. Desperate, maybe. For any other explanation than the one that was already plain clear, surely mauling Enjolras’s mind and thoughts.

After seconds or an eternity Grantaire started, “It’s not mine, I promise. I don’t know -”

“Stop.”

Enjolras barely heard his own voice, not more than a whisper but Grantaire stopped.

Enjolras’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, foreign, his mouth felt foreign, his whole body like it wasn’t his own, like he was nothing more than a silent partner, limp and useless, too shocked.

“I believed you.”

The unguarded hurt in Grantaire’s eyes wasn’t supposed to make him feel like this, wanting to take the words back and forget everything to bring back that smile.

It brought Enjolras back to reality, or maybe not back, maybe he had never been there before, in the cruel, harsh reality laid out in front of him.

The gun fell to the ground, a crash and then another crash further away, maybe the world was crashing down around him.

“I believed you. I lied for you, I -,” he stopped, heartbeat frantically speeding up until he was sure his heart was about to burst out of his chest. “Oh my god.”

Enjolras turned around what seemed to rip Grantaire out of his motionless state. He stepped forward, eyes wide open. “Enjolras, please.”

He reached out and Enjolras stepped away.

Just away.

“Don’t touch me.” His voice was shaking more than it was cold but the intention was clear and definite.

Grantaire froze.

Enjolras turned away not able to bear the sight of anything more, any more of _that_ , of the way the despair and resignation, resignation but not anger, in Grantaire’s eyes was ripping his most inner apart.

He stumbled more than stormed out of the kitchen, tears blurring his vision and suddenly, out of nowhere something hard collided with the back of his head and everything went black.

If he had more time to realize what was happening he might have been grateful. His thoughts stopped so did everything else.

 

***

 

When Enjolras woke up it was more of a coming to himself again slowly than waking up, the world coming back in bits and pieces. He felt a large hand carefully on his forehead and he blinked his eyes open reluctantly.

Javert’s worried face appeared blurrily in his vision.

“Are you alright, boy?”

The words clung together a little and it took Enjolras a moment to discern their meaning. He sat up slowly and ignored the way the room was spinning.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine,” he got out roughly, his voice felt weird in his throat.

Javert didn’t look all too convinced but Enjolras didn’t care enough to put more effort in it.

“What happened?”

The policeman frowned. “It seems,” he started to explain slowly, “That Grantaire went on the lam. He knocked you out, apparently. We’re trying to find him. Can you tell me what happened?”

 

For a moment Enjolras wished he could have just stayed in the state of the - in retrospect - blissful unconsciousness just a little while longer.

 

“Yes, I… I found the gun in the cupboard, he tried to deny it, I was about to leave to -,” his voice might have broken there but he wanted to continue, wanted to explain only that he didn’t know what he had supposed to say. Leave to what? He had no idea.

 

The world had been coming apart even before it had turned black around him.

 

“I’m sorry,” Javert said and it sounded more pitiful than sorry. Enjolras hated it. He didn’t need pity like some stupid little boy. He needed justice.

“Why didn’t he kill me?” he snapped.

Javert flinched taken aback by the venom in Enjolras’s voice. “I can’t tell you but I suppose he was panicking after he didn’t manage to kill the other victim. He probably just wanted to get out of town as fast as possible. You were in the way.”

For the moment the feeling of anger mixed with hurt came to a sudden halt. Confusion seeped through it as Enjolras processed the words that didn’t make sense.

“What- What other victim?”

“The woman he tried to kill last night.”

And that made even less sense.

“What? When?”

Javert started to look more and more worried. “Enjolras, are you sure you’re alright? Do you want me to take you to a hospital?”

“Stop asking, I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine, his heart was beating rapidly in his chest, too quick, too hard. “When did he try to kill that woman?”

“Around 1 am. She managed to escape and hide. Called the police this morning. Gillenormand is questioning her.”

Relief was like a wave taking Enjolras’s breath away, drowning for a moment until he could breathe again suddenly, free. He couldn’t stop the sound escaping from his mouth, half of a sob and half of a hysterical laugh.

“It wasn’t him.”

Javert looked at him like he had lost his mind. “What?”

“It wasn’t Grantaire,” Enjolras repeated more firmly.

The pity returned to the detective’s expression. “Enjolras-,” he started softly but Enjolras cut him off.

“No, it couldn’t have been him because he was with me last night.”

Realization dawned on the other man’s face but Enjolras couldn’t care less. “Judge me later, will you? It wasn’t him, I told you someone was trying to frame him. They must have placed the gun here because you didn’t arrest him, that’s why they tried to get more evidence and when they realized he had an alibi for tonight...”

The feeling of elation dropped as quick as it had come. Enjolras’s eyes widened.

“He didn’t run, oh my god, whoever did that, they have him, he’s -”

He tried to stand but Javert placed his hands firmly on his shoulders. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?!” Enjolras repeated disbelievingly and managed to get on his feet anyway. He swayed a little and Javert had to grab his biceps to keep him from falling. Enjolras carried on, no room for thoughts in his head but fear like a tight fist around his heart. “He’s in the hands of a murderer who hates him enough to try and frame him, who’s gone rogue and -”

“I believe you.”

Enjolras’s mouth snapped shut stunned at the determination in Javert’s voice. “I will set up a team. We will find him.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you won’t.” Before Enjolras could even start to argue, Javert continued sternly, “You’re a lawyer Enjolras. This is a police operation. I am not going to put a civilian in danger.”

Enjolras stared at him, anger returning at the patronizing words.

“And what am I supposed to do? Nothing?” he snapped and Javert’s expression told him that was exactly what he was expecting of him. He ripped his arm away from the detective’s steadying grip.

The older man looked at him a long moment, then sighed heavily. “The woman attacked tonight was Éponine Thénardier.”

Enjolras’s breath got stuck in his throat.

“I advise you strongly to go home and rest,” Javert continued authoritatively, “But then this is a free country. I can’t forbid you to go anywhere you want, say if you wanted to go to Central Park. Or the precinct. Or wherever. The law is the law.” His dark eyes fixated Enjolras with an implacable look, eyebrows raised just a little.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said and it might have been the first time he meant it, truly.

“I don’t know what for,” Javert said firmly already pulling out his radio as if the conversation had never happened. His next glance at Enjolras was disapproving, as always. “But maybe you should put on some pants before you go anywhere, boy.”

Enjolras had far too many other things on his mind to waste time on feeling embarrassed.

 

***

 

For hating cars and probably not being cut out for being stuck in one of those metal death machines, Enjolras had been driving way too much in the last couple of days.

He had just pulled onto the parking space in front of the precinct after most likely putting his own life and that of several other people in grave danger by ‘driving’ when he saw a familiar young woman walk out of the door.

He stopped, more stalled the car and jumped out of to keep sight of her before she could get away.

“Éponine!”

The woman’s eyes narrowed in confusion and widened again in surprise when her gaze fell on Enjolras. He didn’t know if it was because she was surprised to see him or because he must have looked like a maniac, in his dress pants, Grantaire’s hoodie that he had grabbed instead of his coat in the hurry and hair that probably looked like his fingers had gotten too well acquainted with a socket.

“Enjolras? What the hell is wrong with you?” She didn’t ask ‘What are you doing here?’ or ‘What do you want?’

It was straight to the point, not wasting time on pleasantries. Enjolras had never been more grateful for it.

He drew in a deep breath, then said everything at once, “I heard what happened, kind of, the basics. It doesn’t matter, I’m glad you’re alright but you have to tell me if you have any idea who attacked you.”

The frown on her forehead deepened making her features look even more sharp. “I just told the police that I don’t know who it was. I got home from a shift at the bar I’m working at and on my way home from the subway there was someone, a guy I think, that’s all I know, standing in a doorway and suddenly he was in front of me with a gun and I kicked him where it hurt and ran as fast as I fucking could. It was dark and I was a tiny bit distracted by, you know, the fucking gun.”

“Do you think it was Grantaire?” he asked as soon as she was done not minding the aggravation in her tone.

“Of course not,” she snapped now danger swung in her voice. Enjolras approved.

Then her dark eyes narrowed again. “Wait a second,” she said slowly but the realization was already clear on her face. “ _You’re_ the lawyer guy?”

Enjolras didn’t know if that was a bad thing or a good thing, Éponine sounded mostly disbelieving but not in a threatening way so he simply settled on nodding.

She snorted. “Of fucking course.” After a moment she added, “You know you really did a number on him? Never heard him talk about anyone like that.”

And there was a threat somewhere in the words that only brought back the overwhelming feeling of fear and - if Enjolras admitted it - plain and simple guilt.

He breathed out heavily through his nose. “Whoever did this to you already killed two other women.”

“I know,” she said not with fear but disgust.

“They tried to frame it on Grantaire, everything. But I was with him last night so he has an alibi, it couldn’t have been him. So they knocked me out and took him to do god knows what, the police is trying to find him.”

Éponine cursed soundly.

“Yeah,” Enjolras agreed darkly. “I need your help.”

“How am I supposed to help? I didn’t see who it was,” she said angrily, but not at him.

And even though Enjolras knew she had a point.

“I know but….,” he started and saw his own helplessness reflected in her eyes. “You know him and maybe we can figure out something, someone…,” he trailed off knowing the words were as useless as he felt but Éponine’s expression turned determined.

It wasn’t really what could be called a success but it was something. Something was better than nothing.

“Call Bossuet,” she said brusquely and stomped off towards Enjolras’s car stopping halfway to turn around. “And give me the goddamn keys, I had enough near-death experiences in one day.”

  
***

 

“Enjolras, Bahorel filled me in on what happened,” Courfeyrac started to ramble as soon as Enjolras opened the door to the office but stopped when he saw he wasn’t alone.

“Éponine?”

The young woman saluted curtly and sarcastically.

Enjolras heard her murmur under her breath, “Why am I not surprised you’re all in the office on a Sunday?” before she said more loudly, “Long time no see, Courfeyrac, stop talking, we have stuff to do.”

The other man, too baffled to object, followed them into the conference room where Enjolras hadn’t expected to see Marius as well as Combeferre standing at the table that was covered in files and other sheets of papers.

He ignored the burning in his eyes.

Marius looked incredibly relieved to see him. “Good god, you’re here, we have no idea what exactly we’re supposed to be doing.”

“Trying to figure out who’s behind all of this,” Enjolras answered briskly already looking for the list of names they had composed earlier. Two days ago.

How could he have thought things were a mess back then?

Marius who had greeted Éponine as well inquired carefully, “Isn’t that supposed to be the police’s job?”

Enjolras only looked up for one second to glare at him. He tried not to pay attention to how his hands were shaking as he rummaged through the papers.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said gently. Enjolras ignored him.

Courfeyrac tried again, louder. “Enjolras!”

“ _What_?” he snapped.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” And it didn’t sound accusing or angry. Courfeyrac’s eyes were wide and worried, Combeferre’s hand was resting calmingly on his shoulder but he didn’t even seem to notice.

The worry made Enjolras’s insides turn sour. It was like another stab into Enjolras’s heart, his friends worrying, suffering because he couldn’t keep it together. Because he was acting without sparing time to think and was still too late when it came to all the things that mattered.

Like having the guts to talk to his goddamn best friends.

“I….” He swallowed, his voice utterly small in his ears. “I lied for him, yesterday. I told the police he was with me when the pictures went up.”

It wasn’t what he had meant to say but it mattered.

It still only made the actual thing that stuck in his heart like a thorn, like a knife, even more painful.

“Enjolras…,” Courfeyrac said softly.

Maybe Enjolras was only imaging, projecting the disappointment in his voice, maybe it was there for real. Courfeyrac didn’t say anything else but he didn’t have to.

“I know.”

Combeferre’s eyes, in comparison, held a hint of skepticism, like a parent, loving but strict. “And?”

Enjolras looked back and forth between his best friends and he couldn’t have cared less about the others in the room in that moment. It was the three of them, like always. So he talked.

“I doubted him,” he said, admitted. “I found the gun in his kitchen and I doubted him and I didn’t even give him a chance to explain. And now I - if something happens to him -, I didn’t believe him. Even after -” His voice refused to keep going after that.

Enjolras flinched when Éponine spoke. “After you slept with him?” she asked, factually, almost sneering.

“You did?” Courfeyrac exclaimed. When Enjolras didn’t answer - and what was he supposed to answer when it was obvious like that - his eyes widened. “Oh my god, you _did._ ”

“I wasn’t thinking,” he got out eventually.

It was the truth even though as soon as he said it he realized how much of a right asshole he must sound like.

Éponine snorted confirming that suspicion.

Courfeyrac blinked, more confused than anything else. “Are you…,” he trailed off surprisingly unsure.

Enjolras’s stomach clenched at the clear insinuation of the words while at the same time doing somersaults. It was nauseating.

“No.” His voice was too loud all of sudden, too choked. He forced himself to take a deep breath and continue more calmly. “Of course not, I’ve only known him since Tuesday.”

“It’s alright to be confused,” Courfeyrac slowly said sounding incredibly confused.

Enjolras closed his eyes and ran a hand across his face as if he could somehow wipe away the thoughts that made his head spin too fast.

“He just got under my skin,” he reasoned as if that would explain anything.

Obviously it helped at least somewhat because Combeferre said, “It’s alright,” like he meant it. “Just stay calm, we will look through everything you have on the case and see if we can find something helpful.”

“Okay.”

It was a word too simple for the feeling of a weight having been lifted from Enjolras’s shoulders knowing he didn’t have to be on his own in this.

“It’s been one hell of a week but you’ll figure it out okay?” Courfeyrac softly said nudging Enjolras with his elbow.

He forced one half of a smile.

Combeferre nodded earnestly along to Courfeyrac’s words. “The police is doing their job. You can’t lose hope that they’ll find him. And then, you can start over.”

Enjolras found himself nodding as well. It wasn’t optimism but a strange calmness, his thoughts had stopped screaming, trying to eat him from the inside.

“You’re right.” He swallowed, breathed. Breathing was easier again when they were other people breathing next to you. And still there was a feeling of wrongness to it that he couldn’t put a name on. He supposed it wasn’t going to go away until everything was back to normal.

If there even was a ‘normal’ after everything.

 

All three of them startled at the loud thudding sound suddenly ripping through in the quiet of the room.

 

Marius stood with his palms pressed on the table like he was bracing himself, looking down on his hands. His hair was falling in his face. His arms were distinctly shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out, his voice sounding strained and Enjolras was hit with the realization that he sounded _angry._ “But what the hell is wrong with you?!”

 

Everyone stared at him.

Courfeyrac blinked.

Enjolras was too startled to say anything because he hadn’t even known that Marius _could_ sound angry.

He looked up, eyes stormy, his cheeks tinted red but not from embarrassment.

 

“Yes, I said that okay? And I mean it! You really want to sit back and sift through some files? Because you’re _confused_ about how you feel?”

He had turned to Enjolras and he had never felt, never expected to feel small in comparison to Marius.

“You’ve only known him a few days but well, guess what, of course it’s possible you’re in love with him! And honestly, everyone in five miles radius can see that you are! Except _you_ -” he glared at Courfeyrac and Combeferre “ - because of course you can’t imagine that’s possible because you -” he pointed at Courfeyrac “- have been in love with a guy you’ve known since middle school, oh don’t look at me like that, of course I know. We lived together for years in case you remember and you’re not as quiet masturbating as you think you are! And you -” he let up on a wide-eyed, shocked and furiously blushing Courfeyrac to turn to Combeferre and faltered for the first time. Combeferre looked at him over the rim of his glasses, positively murderous - “You’re really scaring me right now but I’m sure you’re perceptive enough to know what I’m aiming for here so let’s drop that.”

He composed himself continuing more firmly again. “So yes, you might not be able to image it but it’s possible to fall in love so fast. Call me naive or stupid or whatever you like, I don’t care because I know I was in love with Cosette the first moment I saw her. I know how I feel, how I felt and you teased me and you made fun of me but it didn’t matter. Yes, you didn’t understand but that doesn’t mean my feelings aren’t valid. Everyone is different. So if your only reason for not being in love with Grantaire is that “people don’t” then you’re just as narrow-minded as you try so hard not to be. So stop be a coward and face it. _Or_ you know, you can keep on pitying yourself and twiddle your thumbs instead of doing everything to get him back but let’s be real, if that’s what you are going to do that then I’ll make damn sure he knows he’s better off without you.”

.The moment silence fell in the room, all eyes on Marius, he seemed to realize what he had done and just like that his expression turned from furious to horrified. His face flushed.

Enjolras wanted to laugh.

At the absurdity that was Marius Pontmercy saying the exact right words, unsparing, brutally honest just to get flustered right after.

He didn’t laugh.

He was in love with Grantaire.

Of course he was.

 

He had just been good at pretending he wasn’t.

 

But obviously not good enough for Marius goddamn Pontmercy.

He was probably going to have to thank him for that.

“What just -,” Courfeyrac started and stopped speechless but Enjolras didn’t really hear him, just a distantly muffled background noise.

Enjolras was in love with Grantaire.

It was absurd, grotesque.

It was the only thing that made sense.

He had just been too much of an emotionally stunted coward to admit it to himself.

And he could sit back and take the easy way out, continue being one, sit back, see what happened. Be a good lawyer, sift through files, do his job.

As soon as he thought it he knew that wasn’t going to happen.

 

“I have a call to make.”

Everyone turned to Enjolras, a versatile set of looks following him as he walked out of the room, no words, no objections. Closing the door behind him he pulled his phone out of his coat that he hadn’t even bothered taking off.

He scrolled through his contacts to the name he was looking for and didn’t waste another breath on hesitating.

It rang, one time, two times.

“ _What the fuck do you want?_ ”

“I need to talk to you. In person. _Now_.”

 

***

 

“No,” Montparnasse said as soon as Enjolras had stepped out of the car.

He was leaning against a pillar in the almost completely deserted parking garage, cigarette dangling from his fingers, hair styled back perfectly sleek. With his impeccable suit he looked like the spoiled son of a mafia boss, all elegant features dangerously sharp.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” Enjolras at least tried starting out sounding calming. He thought it worked quite well for the circumstances.

“I don’t need to. I would have said no even if you hadn’t woken me up on a Sunday. Not all of us work 24/7. Some people have lives, Enjolras.”

“And what does your life constitutes of exactly on a Sunday? Annoying your neighbours and watching Project Runway? Do you sleep in a suit?”

“Was that supposed to be an insult? If so I don’t feel insulted. You should try harder.”

“I’m not here to argue with you.”

“No, I know, that’s just by default.” He sounded bored.

Enjolras took a deep breath and tried not to glare at him too much. “I need your help.”

“Really?“ The man’s eyebrow rose in a perfectly shaped black bow. It was lazy, practiced sarcasm in his voice. “Miracles do happen then.”

“I really don’t need you giving me shit right now.”

“No,” Montparnasse drew out the word.  “You need my _help_.” A one-sided smirk turned up the left corner of his mouth. “Which kind of is a first so let me enjoy the moment here for a little, okay?”

It must have shown on Enjolras’s face how much exactly he thought of that.

Montparnasse sighed dramatically. “Fine. What do you want?”

 

The difference between them, when it came to achieving what they wanted, was not as big as Enjolras would have liked it to be. Montparnasse was ambitious, ruthless and dangerously charming when he had to, all of them trades that Enjolras more than often recognized in himself. The main difference was that the other man’s moral compass was decidedly looser than Enjolras’s, that was to say, about nonexistent.

He had never considered it a lack of his own character.

Until then he had never considered it something that could be of use for him either.

 

“I know you have a way to get publicly not accessible security footage from all over the city,” Enjolras said in one breath as a way of explanation.

It didn’t need more.

Montparnasse’s smile turned cold. “You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t _want_ to. I want your help.”

There was a pause, a silence in which the other man simply regarded Enjolras with narrowed dark, black eyes.

“You are aware,” he began slowly, “That what you’re asking of me is highly illegal. If this came out you could lose your license to practice, you could go to jail. I could ruin your career, everything you’ve worked for, your entire reputation.”

“I don’t give a damn about my reputation. I’m not you.”

Another pause.

Eventually Montparnasse scoffed. “Oh, you couldn’t be me even in your wildest dreams.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and didn’t bother replying. He didn’t have time for this.

“So?” he asked, intention unmistakable.

The other man rolled his lower lip between his teeth thoughtfully. “You know before I answer that, I’m curious. Why would _you_ \- the moral, upstanding citizen you are - go to such length to… to what actually? What are you doing this for? What do you want?” The last question didn’t even sound mocking anymore, just genuinely curious.

Even curiosity had a dangerous tone coming from Montparnasse’s mouth.

Enjolras had learned not to fall for everything he heard. “Someone I care about is in danger and I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him. I’d do anything to keep anything from happening to him. So that’s what I’m doing.”

Montparnasse’s eyebrow slowly crept upwards. “And people tell me I’m a drama queen,” he said eventually. Then he sighed, loudly. “Give me your phone.”

Enjolras’s breath caught in his throat. If the surprise showed on his face as he pulled out his phone Montparnasse didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t acknowledge Enjolras’s slightly shaking fingers either, simply took the phone from his hand and only looked up right before he dialed.

“You know I’m sticking my neck out here for you too.” There was a seriousness in his tone that Enjolras’s had never heard quite that bold. “I hope he’s worth it.”

“He is,” Enjolras said without hesitating.

Montparnasse looked at him, nodded and raised the phone to his ear.

“Claquesous, yeah it’s me. Listen, I need your eyes on something, quickly.”

He then repeated the address and time frame Enjolras told him into the phone making hope and relief clawing their way back up inside him.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, just hurry the fuck up,” Montparnasse snapped. “Yeah. Alright. Good.”

He briskly said his goodbye after that but it didn’t sound all that unfriendly. He gave the phone back to Enjolras. Then he dropped his cigarette to the ground stubbing it out with a perfectly shined shoe. “You should probably run back to your little office. Expect mail.”

The mocking tone was back in his voice, the flawlessly measured amount of disdain and sass, just like Enjolras was used to it.

Again, Enjolras had learned not to fall for everything that he heard.

“Thank you, really.”

Montparnasse shrugged. “I don’t care,” he lied and gave Enjolras another long look before saying casually, “That hoodie is dreadful, by the way.”

Then he turned around, walking away almost sauntering, leaving Enjolras behind in the deserted parking garage.

His heels were clicking on the concrete.

 

***

 

“Where did you get that?” Combeferre asked after Enjolras let Marius connect his phone to the computer since he didn’t really know how that thing worked and his hands were busy shaking from nerves and anticipation.

He had received an email attached with some video files half an hour after he left Montparnasse right before coming back to the office. He probably didn’t even want to know how that was possible.

“I’m not really allowed to tell.”

“Parnasse?”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras turned away from the screen for a moment only to realize that in his absence the room had become even more packed.

“That’s Musichetta,” Bossuet introduced the tall woman next to him. Her black ringlets were bound back with a patterned headband and she looked ready to kill where Bossuet looked drained and unfamiliarly serious. “Joly’s in the middle of a shift at the hospital, he’s trying to get away though,” he added and Enjolras had met neither Bossuet’s girlfriend nor his boyfriend before but Grantaire had told him about them with a fondness in his voice that made it clear how much they meant to him.

So Enjolras said, “Thank you for being here,” and meant it as well.

Musichetta’s eyes, a mix of gold and green and brown, seemed to understand.

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” she simply said. “So, what do you got?”

Enjolras liked her.

“Surveillance footage of Grantaire’s apartment building and the street from this morning.”

No one seemed to think of asking how he had got that or if it was even legal. Marius looked like he was about to for a moment but wisely didn’t. Instead he managed to get a working video onto the screen in the end.

The footage showed the slightly pixelated image of a house entrance probably from the other side of the street in the slowly receding darkness of the morning.

Enjolras felt his breaths get shorter again. “Go to 6:30.”

Marius did.

“Faster.”

Figures appeared when the clock in the left bottom corner turned to 7:26.

“Stop.”

There were two men, one obviously holding the other upright. Even though he had expected it Enjolras felt sick to his stomach when he realized one of them was Grantaire, the dark black curls unmistakable. The other one was small, sturdy. Enjolras didn’t recognize him.

“Wait,” Éponine cut into his convulsing thoughts of defeat and hopelessness. “Go back,” she ordered, her dark eyes glued to the screen as Marius rewound. The face of the man was a blurry mess on the screen but Éponine’s eyes suddenly widened in recognition. Enjolras felt the pulse jump in his throat. “I know who that is.”

“Who?” he breathed out, not caring that his voice was shaking.

“Léon Ramolino. God, I can’t, I mean he always was a right asshole, manipulative as shit, straight up megalomaniac really. But, I mean, we worked together in that -”

“Travel photography project,” Enjolras interrupted her, thoughts running a mile per minute. Hope, relief, concern. “Grantaire told me about it. Courf, is Bahorel working today?”

Courfeyrac looked puzzled for a moment but answered, “Yeah, yeah he does, he complained about getting the weekend shift the whole week.”

Enjolras thanked god and the universe while pulling out his phone and dialing the right number. Bahorel picked up after the second ring.

“Hey, man.” His voice sounded strained. Enjolras put him on speaker-phone indistinctly aware of everyone gathering around the phone. “What’s up.”

“We know who has R,” Enjolras said without preamble.

There was a pause.

Then, “Shit, how the hell? We’ve been running circles around here, turning the whole apartment upside down, I tell ya.” He lowered his voice. “Javert’s a fucking train wreck, hasn’t stop shouting. How-”

“We have the footage of Grantaire’s house,” Enjolras interrupted him. Bahorel let him and didn’t bother acknowledging the illegality of such a thing as well. “Éponine recognized the man taking him. He’s on one of the photos in Grantaire’s apartment, gray card box, second shelf from the right. It’s one of the Grand Canyon, he’s the one next to Grantaire and Éponine. He was with them in a travel photography project a couple of years ago.”

"Damn, what did you say his name was?"

Enjolras repeated it.

Another pause.

“Hold on for a second there, yeah?”

Before Enjolras could answer there were different sounds of shuffling for about a minute until Enjolras was sure he would go crazy if he had to ‘hold on’ any longer. He bit down on his lip. His whole body was tense, high-strung. He hadn’t realized his hands had clenched into fists until Combeferre gently placed a hand on his wrist.

“Hey, chief,” Bahorel’s muffled voice sounded through the speaker of the phone from further away. “I got something.”

“What?” Javert snapped in response.

“Doesn’t this guy look like the one from the footage?”

Stupid smart bastard, Enjolras thought fondly.

“Who is that?” Javert asked sharply and Enjolras could as well have seen Bahorel’s exaggerated shrug. “Léon something, I suppose,” he said, “Says so on the back.”

Enjolras was pretty sure there had been nothing on the bag of the photography.

Javert barked out a few words sounding further away so it obviously wasn’t directed at Bahorel. A commotion of more mumbling and shuffling rose, the only clear sound was Bahorel saying loudly, “What was that?”, then repeating an address loudly, clear and obvious for them to hear.  

Enjolras’s froze except for the rapid beating of his heart.

“Send me a team, _now,_ ” Javert ordered before adding seemingly reluctant, “Good job Bahorel.”

“I aim to please, Sir,” Bahorel retorted bitingly cheery.

A few seconds later the line was cut off.

For a moment no one moved or said anything.

Then Musichetta stood up.

“I’m driving.”

 

***

 

In retrospect, it was a miracle how six people fit into Musichetta’s car but in that moment no one really cared about some elbows in ribs, feet stomping on feet.

Marius stayed at the office, ‘holding the fort,’ he said, ‘in case something new comes up’.

Bossuet took the passenger seat. Enjolras, Combeferre and Éponine clambered into the backseat and Enjolras wasn’t able to breathe steadily anyway so it didn’t really matter when Courfeyrac wordlessly took place on his lap. He wasn’t too heavy and his familiar perfume was soothing in Enjolras’s nose.

Courfeyrac didn’t say anything, simply took Enjolras’s arms slinging them around his waist and held on to his hands. Tight.

Enjolras’s buried his face in Courfeyrac’s curls.

He held his breath, let it out again. Breathing in, holding, out.

No one in the car said a word but Enjolras could feel Combeferre’s leg pressed against his.

He thought about praying, for a moment, but between his two best friends Enjolras had never been the religious one.

His belief was in the greatness of days yet to come and yes, sometimes even the faith of the strongest believer falters. He knew he was simply human. He had regarded it as a weakness most of his life. Feeling alive, raw and unrestrained, feeling human, confused and helpless.

He wondered if he was going to get another chance to understand fully how wrong he had been.

And then he thought, he wouldn’t ask for it. He would be alright, alright with getting only that one, short chance, the one he had messed up, for the rest of his life if it meant Grantaire was going to be okay.

He closed his eyes and tightened his fingers around Courfeyrac’s.

His hair smelled like coconut.

The car took an abrupt turn and came to an even more abrupt stop.

Courfeyrac managed to brace himself just in time to avoid crashing full force into the seat in front of him. Éponine let out a string of curses that would have made Enjolras wince if he hadn’t been friends with Bahorel. He leaned around Courfeyrac to get a look out of the front window.

Enjolras realized the extent of what he was seeing before either Musichetta or Bossuet could answer Combeferre’s concerned question of, “What is going on?”

The had taken a turn into a narrow side street, two rows of brick houses that looked like they had only narrowly escaped eviction crowded in on a street in equally desperate need of renewal. Roughly in the middle three police cars stood blocking the view on what had to be a house entrance.

A policeman stood in front of the car blocking the way further.

Musichetta opened the door of the driver’s side.

“Miss, I need you to turn around and -”

Enjolras didn’t know how his shaking hands managed to unbuckle his belt but a second later Courfeyrac landed in Combeferre’s lap with a surprised noise and Enjolras was out of the car, running.

 

“Sir! Sir, you can’t -”

“Enjolras, no-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

 

His mind cut off the policeman’s, Combeferre’s, Éponine’s and everyone else’s voice that followed, the slamming of the car doors, everything else.

When someone tried to grab his wrist he didn’t know if it was the adrenaline or simple desperation that gave him enough strength to rip his hand away.

Enjolras saw Javert first, gun raised, face concentrated, tense. Then the other men around him, task force, calm, dark and alert and everywhere.

 

He saw Grantaire last.

No, not last.

The last one he saw was the man behind Grantaire, smaller, dark hair and wide eyes that weren’t panicked but determined.

 

Enjolras didn’t waste a second looking at him.

Grantaire was breathing, eyes open, his whole body tense, all of it translating into an overwhelming chant of _alivealivealive_ in Enjolras’s mind, _alive,_ until their eyes met over the heads of the people around.

There was no fear in the moment their eyes met. Just resignation, apathy, even. Then confusion. Then shock. Enjolras could have sworn he saw the shades of green in the midst of blue even from the distance.

His feet stopped against his own will, everything came to a stop when Enjolras’s world narrowed down to the gun pressed against the side of Grantaire’s head, the black curls sticking together with blood. It must have been blood.

Javert’s voice sounded somewhere in between it all, no words, just voice, tone. Hard and demanding.

The man behind Grantaire smiled.

Enjolras could feel hands on his shoulders pulling him back.

The sound of the shot that followed didn’t make the word trip to a stop, didn’t make time slow and stop. Everything was motion, blurred and erratic, one sound and then noise, screams and curses and the city, a second shot not more than a second later, a third and a fourth and Enjolras stopped counting.

The last thing he saw was the surprised shock in Grantaire’s eyes before he broke down.

It was like he felt every bullet ripping through his own body when the shooting had already stopped, when people rushed forward, when he ripped himself away from the hands on his shoulders.

There was blood on the floor, and bodies. The other man’s chest was soaked in blood, gunshot wounds there and there and there. Enjolras couldn’t see where the rest of the blood came from, the one around Grantaire, the sharp sting of tears making his vision flow away in front of his eyes.

There was white noise everywhere until Enjolras’s body collided with another one, taller, strong arms immediately wrapping around his torso as the air was punched out of his lungs.

“Don’t.” The press of Bahorel’s arms around him, hard and painful, reached him before his voice did, then it was words and words and hand pulling him close by the neck, holding him. “You need to breathe, _breathe_. You can’t help him, medical is on the way, Enjolras, you need to breathe.”

Combeferre was rushing to the side of the people around Grantaire on the ground. “Let me through, I’m a doctor.” His voice was tense, authoritative. Even Javert stepped aside.

Enjolras could hear sirens in the distance.

“Enjolras, _breathe._ ” Bahorel’s voice against his ear.

Enjolras stopped struggling and sagged into the other man’s arm.

The death grip turned into an embrace, gentle, holding him up.

Enjolras breathed.

He didn’t know what else was happening around him but through the tears his eyes didn’t leave Grantaire’s pale, unmoving face.

‘Too late,’ his mind whispered, again and again.

He didn’t know if he said it out but Bahorel’s arms tightened around him.

 

***

 

Every time Enjolras blinked it felt like his eyes stayed closed for longer and every time he opened them again it took longer for the world to shift back into focus.

Musichetta sat next to him, tight-lipped, long elegant fingers folded together in her lap.

Enjolras could see Combeferre on his other side from the corner of his eye but he kept on staring straight ahead like he had been for the last one hour, or two or maybe days, he wouldn’t have been able to tell.

Ever since a stressed medical assistant had come out of the surgery and told them Grantaire was out of _immediate_ danger before rushing to the next emergency. The bullet had obviously hit somewhere between his shoulder and neck and only missed the artery by less than an inch.

Before that Enjolras hadn’t stared at the wall.

Before that he closed his eyes and breathed.

Bossuet was the only one not sitting and waiting on an uncomfortable plastic chair - being nothing but useless, Enjolras mind supplied bitter and helplessly. He had left with the vague intention of finding out something more substantial, as if the last five nurses passing hadn’t been able to tell them exactly nothing.

Enjolras was tired.

He thought he might be sick the next time someone looked at him with pity in their eyes so he stared at the opposite wall, white and sterile and unimpressed. It was comforting somehow.

Bossuet returned after another half an hour, maybe a whole or maybe two and he looked like he considered dropping to the floor right where he was but Musichetta stood up and slung her arms around his shoulders.

“News?” she said into the silence and Bossuet’s heavy sigh made Enjolras look away from the wall for the first time in what felt like forever. His neck protested but he ignored the ache.

“They took him down from intensive care but they say he’s not going to wake up anytime soon so we can’t really do anything right now. Joly said we should go home and get some rest, he’s going to call if he finds out something new.”

Enjolras remembered that Bossuet’s boyfriend was working in a hospital. Not which one but that question seemed needless right then.

He didn’t move until he felt Combeferre’s hand on his upper arm.

“That’s reasonable. It’s probably a good idea to get some sleep. It doesn’t help if someone drops dead on their feet,” he said calmly to no one in particular but it wasn’t a suggestion.

Enjolras bit down onto his lip and didn’t say anything.

Bossuet sighed heavily again but didn’t protest probably because Musichetta nodded instantly at Combeferre’s words so everyone stood up slowly, mechanically, one after another.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre prompted gently after Enjolras hadn’t moved an inch.

“I’m staying.”

Before Combeferre could reply anything Éponine cut in. “Don’t be fucking stupid.” She sounded hoarse and as tired as Enjolras felt. “We’ve been here for like five, six hours, you look like shit. You heard Bossuet, you can’t do anything so go home and some fucking sleep before R’s not the only one in a hospital bed.”

Enjolras flinched then quickly send a glare in her direction was most likely an uneven mixture of murderous and exhausted, in favor of the later, but she ignored him.

This time, when Combeferre nudged his elbow he did stand up though. Courfeyrac was on at his other side in the matter of a second slipping his hand into Enjolras’s and holding on tightly.

Enjolras tried to convince himself that every step further away from the uncomfortable plastic chair _didn’t_ feel like a punch in the gut.

When they reached the outside, the light of the day already fading, Enjolras stopped.

Everyone else did the same, Combeferre to his right, Courfeyrac to his left. The others a few steps ahead.

The silence was there, even with the noise of cars and people.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “Do you guys mind giving us a ride?”

Enjolras indistinctly remembered driving in Musichetta’s car. It felt like a lifetime ago. Six hours felt like a century.

“Sure,” Bossuet said, the smile on his face genuine.

Enjolras stared at the lifted corner of his mouth with astonishment.  

When Courfeyrac tugged at his hand his brain caught up with the here and now again. He slowly pulled his hand out of the other man’s grip.

“I’m going to take the subway.” He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he was sure he tasted blood at the concerned look of six pairs of eyes. “It’s alright, I just need some time to...”

Be alone? Think? Cry?

“Smoke,” he settled on and the look he caught from Combeferre then wasn’t judging but knowing. Courfeyrac sight so quietly Enjolras was sure to be the only one who heard.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac said softly but with an undertone that practically spelled out there was no room for arguments from anyone else. “But call, yeah?”

It wasn’t a, ‘Call when you’re home’ or ‘Call when you need something’ but ‘Call when you need _us_ ’.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said and it meant thank you.

He was glad they didn’t need all that many words to talk.

Enjolras watched the others go, half scuffing, half holding each other upright before he reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out his rarely used pack of cigarettes.

He only realized he wasn’t wearing his jacket when his fingers touched the soft material of Grantaire’s hoodie.

There weren’t any cigarettes in the pockets but a half empty pack of tic tacs, two pencils a ballpoint pen, a bottle of nail polish and two-thirds of a Calvin & Hobbes comic that looked like it had been ripped out of a magazine.

Enjolras smoothed the crumpled edges of the paper, then he turned around and went back to the way to the plastic chair.

Once he sat down it felt easier to breathe.

 

***

 

 

Enjolras hadn’t realized his eyes had fallen closed until he opened them as soon as he woke up. Fingers were gently combing through his hair and the first thing he saw was the pastel pattern of Cosette’s skirt where his head rested on her thighs.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Enjolras blinked a few times, then slowly sat up.

The confusion at seeing her must have been evident on his face because she explained before he could ask. “Marius called me to tell me what happened.”

The pity Enjolras expected to see didn’t come.

Instead she stretched her legs. “I called Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They said you were a stubborn idiot staying here. Well, they didn’t _say_ that because they’re not mean and respect your decisions.”

Enjolras’s sleep-rattled brain finally started functioning, catching up with her words.

“And you?” he rasped, his throat felt raw and dry.

“I also respect nutrition and dental hygiene,” she retorted dryly. “I also think there’s no need for even more suffering in a hospital than there already is.”

Enjolras didn’t have to ask what she meant by that.

Cosette hadn’t been there to see her mother die but Valjean, her adoptive father, had spent the last days by her side. Cosette had once told Enjolras how tight he had held her hand the one and only time he had talked about it, without tears but endless sadness. Enjolras knew he was thinking about that but she didn’t dwell on it.

Instead she pointed to the bag in the chair next to her he hadn’t noticed before.

“I got you fresh clothes from your apartment and some left-over casserole from Jehan. Also toothbrush, soap, towel and deodorant. I stopped by the precinct and Feuilly insisted I’d bring you some muffins as well, Bahorel ate the rest but he said that they found that it wasn’t the first time the guy did something like that, probably some misplaced ideology and napoleon complex. They matched his fingerprints to four other crime series, all falsely convicted suspects. It’s a nightmare. Bossuet had no news yet but it’s only been three hours so don’t worry too much. But Joly, you know his and Musichetta’s boyfriend, let him know the number of the room Grantaire’s in now, he texted it to everyone. Also Parnasse called, said something about you being a dick and a reckless idiot but he sounded relieved. I think. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. Oh, and Marius wasn’t sure if he should let me tell you something, he seemed a little afraid you come out of nowhere and stab him, care to explain what that’s about?”

For a second Enjolras had to focus his whole energy on not breaking into tears.

Cosette’s pointed nonchalance, the simple straightforwardness without any pity or obvious concern, like she would have talked to him any other day, was something Enjolras hadn’t known he needed so desperately after the mess of the last hours, last days.  
There were a thousand things he wanted to say or simply hug her because words weren’t enough. He was sure that he would start crying though if he did that.

In the end he simply said, “You’ve got a good one there. You should keep him.”

And if his voice sounded too rough and raw, Cosette didn’t mention it.

“I intend to,” she said with a small smile that Enjolras knew wasn’t meant for him because it disappeared when her expression turned serious again. “Do you?”

There went the question how much Marius had told her.

Or she had figured it out herself because she wasn’t stupid and in retrospect, Marius had been right about a lot of things. It was quite obvious.

Enjolras had too many emotions to deal with annoyance as well. And if he was honest, he wasn’t annoyed, not even angry. He was tired.

 

“If he lets me.”

 

Cosette seemed to deem that an acceptable answer. She stood up, smoothing down her skirt and nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. I only wanted to drop off all of this. Marius and I are meeting papa for dinner. He’s worried but I’ll take care of it.”

It was obvious she knew he wanted to be alone but she didn’t say it out loud so neither did Enjolras. Instead he reached for her hand.

“Thank you.”

The smile on her face was soft. She squeezed his hand once before letting go. “Eat,” she said then she left Enjolras feeling just a little bit lighter around his heart.

 

***

 

The next time he opened his eyes, after several nightmarish shadow visions appearing in his state of half-sleep and semi-consciousness, it was dark outside.

The light in the hospital corridor was eerie.

Enjolras had changed one uncomfortable plastic chair for another, he wasn’t allowed to go into the room Grantaire had been moved to but a door and a wall felt like a more assuring distance than half a hospital. At least that was what he tried to tell himself.

He ran a hand through his hair, across his face and closed his eyes again.

He should feel drained, he thought, but everything inside him was filled to the brink with the dread and intensity of the last hours. He kept his eyes closed and tried to push the feelings, everything, down.

 

“Hey.”

 

Enjolras almost fell out of the chair when he startled at the sudden voice. He hadn’t even noticed someone approaching but suddenly he was faced with a very much real looking young man in scrubs and with a worried expression on his face.

“Are you alright?” His slightly upturned nose scrunched up even more in an expression that reminded Enjolras a lot of Bossuet for some reason even though the man was tiny and didn’t look like Bossuet at all.

“Yeah. Yes,” Enjolras got out eloquently after he managed to recover from the shock. “I’m just… waiting.” It sounded more like a question.

The man’s eyes glided along the row of closed doors to the patients’ rooms and settled on the one Enjolras couldn’t help but glance at.

“For… Grantaire?”

Enjolras’s more suspicious part of mind wondered for a moment if hospital workers all knew the new patients but his head was too full of thoughts as it was.  

He simply nodded.

“And you are his…?” The man left the question open for Enjolras to fill in and even though the tone of his voice was soft as well as inquiring the words felt like a punch square in the stomach.

“I’m,” he started but without knowing what to say silenced.

His what?

The guy he would have died believing thought he was a ruthless killer? The guy he knew for a couple of days who happened to have slept with him? His what? His nothing, in the end.

Enjolras felt his lower lip, his whole body tremble.

 

“I’m his lawyer,” he said weakly and his voice cracked at the last word.

 

Something passed over the other man’s face.

Enjolras’s couldn’t decipher what it was, he was too focused on biting down onto his lip, his fingernails pressing crescent shapes into his skin where he clenched his hands so tight his knuckles were white. He wouldn’t cry. He _wouldn’t._ He blinked away the tears at the edge of his vision.

“Oh,” the other man said.

Enjolras didn’t look at him, stared ahead blinking, blinking again, his eyes were burning.

He startled again when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The man’s eyes were soft, a dark, warm brown.

“Hey,” he said and when Enjolras didn’t pull away he knelt down next to his chair, then moved forward carefully to give him enough to time to back away before pulling him into a gentle hug. “He’s going to be okay.”

Enjolras cracked.

He only felt the tears when they fell on his cheeks. Every limb, every part of his body was shaking too much. He closed his eyes to shut out the world simply sank into the embrace of a stranger, crumbling on the floor of a hospital. He focused on the way the other man’s arm held him against his chest and tightened his fingers in the cloth of the scrubs, held on and cried.

The tears were for Grantaire and for the injustice and horror in the world, they were out of gratefulness for Grantaire’s life and the kindness of his friends. They were for the anger at himself, the regret and the grief. A relief of the tension and exhaustion of the last hours and days.

Enjolras didn’t remember the last time he had cried.

He felt soothing fingers run through his hair and a soothing voice saying words Enjolras didn’t muster up the energy to understand and didn’t need to.

 

He cried until he felt there was no longer a single drop left in his body and he didn’t move until dry sobs turned into harsh breaths and until his body stopped shaking. Until he felt drained but lighter like a part of the world had been lifted from his shoulder, like water flowing through an open dam.

 

When Enjolras’s fingers untangled from the fabric of the shirt that he had been holding on for dear life, the other man slowly leaned back a little. He scrutinized Enjolras quickly with trained, attentive eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” was all he said before he stood up.

Enjolras could hear the joints in his knees cracking and winced but the other man just waved it off with a dismissive gesture and disappeared down the hallway.

Enjolras back protested when he leaned back from the crouched position he had been sitting in for god knew how long. He took a deep breath and sat back down on the chair.

Breathing itself felt much easier all of sudden.

A few minutes later - three and a half, Enjolras counted the seconds in his head, it was quietly reassuring - the man returned with two paper cups smelling like coffee.

He flopped down onto the chair next to Enjolras and unceremoniously shoved one of the cups into Enjolras hand.

Before Enjolras could say anything he was already talking again. “Don’t thank me, really, it’s hospital coffee which basically translates into the definition of dreadful but it does the trick.”

He took a large gulp and made a disgusted face that scrunched up his nose again. “Ugh. Some day someone is going to get poisoned from this, I swear. Anyway, I talked to the doctor or well, I bribed her because you know, nightshift doctors are the only ones immune to the dreadfulness of this shit and she said if you’re quiet you can see him. If you want. He’s still not going to wake up for a while but…,” he trailed off and shrugged.

Enjolras stared at him, open-mouthed and disbelieving.

He wanted to say yes, yes and please and _thank you_ but the words got stuck in his throat.

He imagined Grantaire in a hospital bed, fragile, barely escaped with his life. He imagined Grantaire waking up.

“I’m not sure he’ll want to see me.”

The other man’s gaze softened. “Yes, he will. I know he will.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Come on.”

Enjolras looked at the hand for a while and eventually let himself be pulled up on his feet.

 

***

 

For most of the time Enjolras watched Grantaire sleep. Sometimes, when he couldn’t stand it any longer, the pale motionlessness of his face, he looked out of the window instead watching the morning come and go.

With truly terrible coffee and a few hours of sleep he would have almost felt normal if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was in a hospital room on an uncomfortable chair and not his uncomfortable sofa in the office.

The strangely friendly hospital worker showed up two more times, the first time he unprompted told Enjolras he was going to watch Grantaire for a couple of minutes so he could go to one of the break rooms to change and brush his teeth. When Enjolras thanked him he simply acknowledged it with a nod and a small, generous smile. The second time they sat in silence for a few minutes.

Enjolras didn’t know how long ago that had been, he only knew that it was starting to get darker outside again or maybe he was only imagining it. Maybe it was going to rain. The sky was gray.

His eyes drifted back to Grantaire just in time to catch the other man’s eyebrows twitch, a fine line appearing on his forehead just visible under stray black curls.

When he opened his eyes Enjolras had stopped breathing.

 

A single, slightly hysterical thought remarked that it might have been a good idea to make some kind of plan about what to say beforehand. It was swallowed up by a staggering sense of relief and gratefulness when Grantaire’s eyes found Enjolras.

 

He looked slightly disoriented for a moment and Enjolras didn’t move, couldn’t move, just let himself be pinned to the spot by slightly hazy blue and green eyes.

It almost came as a surprise, startling in the silence when Grantaire eventually, suddenly said, “So you _were_ real.”  It was barely a statement, more of a disbelieving, unintended comment. His voice was breathy and too quiet. “Or I’m dead after all.”

Enjolras felt a pang in his chest and willed himself not to start crying, not again. Not now. The last thing anyone needed right then was him having another breakdown. Everything was going to be alright.

Grantaire was alive. And awake.

He could do this.

“You’re not dead,” Enjolras got out, only slightly more steady than Grantaire. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. The second try was a little bit better, a little less like he was about to break out into tears any second. “You were shot.”

Grantaire blinked. Blinked again. “Really? Wouldn’t have guessed.”

Enjolras couldn’t help but stare at him. And then stare a little bit longer.

“Should- Should I call someone? A nurse, are you -” He knew he was rambling when he should be talking and when Grantaire only looked him and shook his head, then, because he knew he would burst, simply burst if he didn’t, he said, “I’m sorry.”

It felt like so much and not at all enough at the same time.

Grantaire looked at him for a moment longer before he turned his eyes to the ceiling. When he sighed it was like he sank back even further into the cushions, the hospital bed eerily imposing around his frame.

“You don’t have to be.”

“Yes, I do.” Objection was at least slightly more familiar territory. He managed to make his voice sound almost normal, soft still, and a little too frantic but less choked. “And I _am_ sorry. For doubting you -,”

“You found a _gun_ in my cupboard. It wasn’t far-fetched,” Grantaire interrupted him with the attempt of a shrug. He didn’t move more than his right shoulder, just a little. He still wasn’t looking at Enjolras who wasn’t even going to give him one second of time to get on with believing that.  

“Yes, it was because I knew it wasn’t you. I was sure, from the start and after everything you told me. I knew you aren’t a bad person. I should have trusted my intuition but I didn’t and it was the stupidest mistake I could have done because it had nothing to do with you and all with _me_ being a coward. Which means, I don’t only have to apologize for that. I didn’t really…” He stopped in his stream of words. There had to be some kind of rules for this, for pouring out your heart to someone, what as too much, too soon: But if there were, he didn’t know them. “I _didn’t_ handle all of this well. Not in a way that was fair to you. And I’m sorry for how I treated you, _this -_ ” Grantaire’s eyes snapped back to Enjolras “- between us,” he finished.

The look on Grantaire’s face was a lot of things. Doubtful, cautious, confused. Maybe Enjolras only imagined the hope because he wanted it to be there.

“This?” he repeated and Enjolras wasn’t sure what he was asking so he simply answered, “Yes.”

The distance between the chair and the bed was only about three feet but felt like miles.

“I was confused by how I felt about you, feel about you,” Enjolras said and found it much easier to talk to his hands then. He could feel Grantaire’s eyes resting on his face almost as distinct as a touch would have been. “I didn’t know what to do about it. I wasn’t really aware how much…,” he trailed off.

It was quiet for a while. Enjolras looked at his hands.

Grantaire’s voice was very, very carefully blank. “You’re not confused anymore?”

Enjolras looked up.

“No,” he said immediately disbelieving that Grantaire would even still think that, after everything. When he realized as he looked at him that he actually _did,_ something inside Enjolras cracked. It wasn’t pity or even sympathy but anger at a world that could make someone as astonishing and striking as Grantaire that insecure and doubting.

“No, I’m not,” Enjolras said more forcefully and then decided that it didn’t matter what was proper or too much or too soon for those things only that Marius was right. He was in love. God, he was so in love. “When I didn’t know where you were I felt the most _terrible_ I’ve felt in ages. Not because I had been wrong or whatever but because I didn’t even know if you were alive. You could have _died_ and, and I don’t know how much it matters to you but you could have died thinking I hated you after… after everything that’s happened. And then we found you and you were shot and we didn’t know if you were going to survive this and I, I was a mess. I _am._ I didn’t know if you were going to be okay or if I was going to be able to see you again. But I did. And you are. Will be. That’s just- that’s what I wanted you to know.”

Enjolras only paused a second to take a breath but before he continued he looked back at his hands. The next words felt too heavy before he had even spoken them. “And if you want me to go now,” he forced himself to say, “I will. I’m not saying I want to, god, I don’t, and I know we didn’t even really had all that much time to know each other and I probably didn’t make the most agreeable impression after all but I know how I fell and I -”

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras’s mouth fell shut. It took a moment for the words he had been about to say to fizzle out in his mind. He looked up and met Grantaire’s eyes again, bright and shining.

“You’re so dramatic.”

If Enjolras had been sure he would have said there was the smallest hint of a smile around Grantaire’s mouth. It was absolutely disarming.

“Well,” Enjolras said with a huff that might have been a quivering laugh, “it’s been a pretty dramatic week.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed. When he looked back up to the ceiling this time, Enjolras kept looking at him too afraid to miss anything, an answer of whatever kind.

Grantaire bit down onto his lips and when he spoke the words were barely audible.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Enjolras’s heart leaped.

Grantaire continued, equally quiet, unsteady. “But you’re not the only mess. I got like so much baggage you don’t even know of and it’s not like it has gotten less, exactly. And it’s not… pretty or romantic or whatever you might think.”

“I don’t care.”

Grantaire huffed. It was a terrible sound, bitter. “You say that now.”

Enjolras stood up.

Grantaire’s eyes flickered to him and Enjolras refused to look away. It was a fierce determination paired with a strange gentleness that he hadn’t been familiar with feeling when he sat down at the very edge of the bed. He didn’t want to hurt Grantaire’s injury but he also couldn’t let the distance hover between them like that for longer. He reached out to cover Grantaire’s hand with his own, gently closing his fingers around Grantaire’s.

“I’m not going to stop saying this. I don’t care that the challenges you have to deal with are not pretty or easy, of course they aren’t. But it’s _you._ And you’re worth it. For me.”

“How can you know?”

Enjolras squeezed his hand. When Grantaire looked up Enjolras didn’t even try to hold back his smile. “Because I’m going to trust my instinct. I already made the mistake of not doing that once. And I’m not going to do it again. So believe me, I know. And it’s pretty difficult to change my mind.”

Grantaire looked at him with wide blue and green eyes full of astonishment. Enjolras didn’t move and didn’t look away, maybe he wasn’t breathing but he could feel his heart beating in his chest, his pulse down to his fingers until a very small reflection of his own smile tugged at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth.

“Okay.”

And despite everything that had happened in one week, murderers and death, dread and almost deaths and hospitals and breakdowns, in that moment, if someone had asked him, Enjolras wouldn’t have hesitated a second before replying that yes, he was happy, more than he could have imagined.

“Okay.”

Grantaire closed his eyes but the smile stayed on his lips. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Enjolras intertwined their fingers. “Likewise.”

 

The door opened softly and Enjolras looked over his shoulder to find the man from earlier poking his head inside. His eyes landed on Enjolras’s hand holding on to Grantaire’s and a smile spread across his face.

“Oh good, you’re done,” he said and stepped into the room. “Because I really have to check up on R’s vitals but you were talking earlier so I thought I’d give you a minute. Seemed important.”

Enjolras tried not to blush at the fact that he’d obviously been too distracted to hear a door open.

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat a little awkwardly but the other man just kept smiling.

“Told you he’d want to see you,” he said and winked.

He could feel the heat in his cheeks but Enjolras blushing got sidetracked by Grantaire who groaned loudly and closed his eyes. For a moment Enjolras panicked that he was in pain and felt immediately bad because oh my god, he had been _shot_ and Enjolras had been talking about _feelings_ instead of life-threatening injuries.

“Come on, you did _not,_ ” Grantaire groaned out and well, it didn’t sound pained. It sounded even more embarrassed than Enjolras felt.

“I didn’t tell him my sources,” the other man giggled. Honest to god giggled. Enjolras thought he might be missing out on something there.

“Anyway, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Joly.”

Enjolras was about to say something along the lines of, ‘Nice to meet you, Joly,’ when it clicked.

“ _Oh,_ ” he said intelligently.

Joly grinned.

Grantaire cracked an eye open glancing at Enjolras. “You didn’t ask for his name?”

For some reason, that didn’t really help with Enjolras’s blush. “I was distracted,” he mumbled.

“Well, I forgive you,” Joly quipped. Then he stepped up to Grantaire letting his eyes glide over the bandages around his shoulder, chest, the side of his neck.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, sincerely and gentle and again Enjolras thought how he looked a lot and at the same time not at all like Bossuet.

The words made Enjolras swallow hard. He held on to Grantaire’s hand tighter, not tight enough to hurt but enough to say, ‘You’re here, I’m here, after everything, we will be alright, somehow, somewhen, together.’

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. “Me too.”

He didn’t let go of Enjolras’s hand.

 

***

 

Epilogue

 

“So,” Grantaire said casually, tugging lightly at Enjolras’s dark blue tie. “You need another tissue?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes with all of the dignity he had left. “I’m fine.”

“You know, it’s kind of anticlimactic,” Courfeyrac chimed in, “that in the end they’re not even doing the reception at a gallery.”

Enjolras looked around the garden that was like a place out of a fairy tale, white and yellow decorations, flowers everywhere. The sun shone warmly from next to some stray May clouds. Cosette had decided to change the venue exactly three weeks before the wedding. Enjolras hadn’t tried to understand either the reasoning or how she managed to pull it off in time.

“Maybe,” Combeferre said thoughtfully, his hand resting about a hairbreadth away from Courfeyrac’s on the table. “But if they had we wouldn’t have been able to find out how often Bahorel tries to say ‘it’s just the allergies’.”

Enjolras glanced at Bahorel sitting next to Feuilly who looked like he was having a hard time not to laugh out loud at his red-eyed boyfriend. His expression was a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

Courfeyrac sighed happily. “Sixteen times. It’s amazing.”

He suddenly sat up straight as a small crowd of people started to gather at the stage of the band that had stopped playing.

“Oh, Cosette’s throwing the bouquet!”

“You’re the best man Courf!” Enjolras called after him.

“Fuck heteronormativity!” He shouted back, probably a bit too loud for a wedding, without even turning around.

“He’s going to be stomped to death,” Combeferre stated but there was an amused edge to his smile next to the overarching love and gentleness.

Grantaire shrugged. “Eh, I don’t think so. He’s got motivation.”

Combeferre just laughed and stood up to get another drink.

Enjolras turned to Grantaire with a questioning look but the other man only sported a grin accompanied by a meaningful raise of the eyebrows that made Enjolras think of a whole set of other things that he did not need to be thinking about right then.

He quickly looked away knowing very well he was going to be mercilessly teased about it later. He couldn’t say he minded all that much.

Marius stood next to Cosette, he looked already on his way to more than tipsy, bright-eyed, young and absolutely happy when she turned around laughing brightly as she threw the bouquet over her shoulder. They looked beautiful together.

Enjolras wasn’t exactly surprised when Courfeyrac did emerge out of the crowd of people and what looked like a lot of dangerously pointy elbows successfully holding up the bouquet.

He turned to their table grinning brightly and triumphant.

Enjolras knew Courfeyrac enough to recognize every single emotion that flickered over his face then in a matter of seconds. Triumph closely followed by disappointment, confusion, realization and eventually, fierce determination.

A moment later Enjolras witnessed his best friend practically stomping over to Combeferre who had made it halfway to the bar by then, dropping the bouquet to the floor and grabbing Combeferre by the lapels of his suit and pulling him into a hard, anything but chaste kiss.

Enjolras was sure his eyebrows were up at his hairline.

“Idiots,” a voice announced next to him and he almost had a heart attack.

“Goddammit!”

Montparnasse did something with his mouth that might have generously counted as a lazy smile and elegantly dropped onto the chair next to Enjolras.

Enjolras blinked. “What on _earth_ are you wearing?”

The other man didn’t seem fazed by his incredulous expression. His light lilac suit made his hair look even darker, ink black like his eyes. He looked like he had jumped straight out of an editorial photo shoot, not a single hair or fold out of place.

“I know. I look fabulous. You have no words for expressing your amazement.” He nodded in what might have once had a humble meaning to it then he glanced back at Combeferre and Courfeyrac still attached at the lips. Combeferre’s arms had found their way around Courfeyrac who was standing on his tiptoes, hands probably irrevocably destroying any order of Combeferre’s hair.  

Enjolras frowned at Montparnasse. “You don’t seem surprised.“

Montparnasse huffed. “Oh, please. Of course not. I bet Courfeyrac if he didn’t catch the bouquet he’d have to kiss him.”

“But… he caught it.”

“Oh, I _know_.”

Enjolras looked back at his best friends. “Oh.”

Grantaire laughed and Montparnasse black eyes snapped to him. It was a cool look, examining. Enjolras couldn’t help but tense and he knew the other man noticed. Montparnasse's eyes flickered to Enjolras then back to Grantaire.

He stood up.

“Nice tie,” he stated with a tone as generously as it was conceding. Then he turned around left.

Enjolras didn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

Grantaire blinked. “Alright. That was weird. Who is that?”

Enjolras looked after Montparnasse retreating figure striding through the people like he owned the whole place in a lilac three pieced suit and smiled. “He’s a friend.”

Grantaire only hummed thoughtfully but didn’t ask anything else. Then he nudged Enjolras with his elbow. “See that asshole over there?”

He pointed discreetly at a middle-aged man with an expression of someone having just slugged down a glass of sour milk even though he was holding a glass of champagne in his hand. He didn’t seem very enthusiastic about Courfeyrac and Combeferre smiling so brightly at each other that Enjolras wondered for a moment how they could even stand it. It was beautiful.

He reached for Grantaire’s hand and grinned. “Hey, want to wreck a bigot at a wedding?”

Grantaire’s face lit up.

It wasn’t something that happened too often, so freely and unguarded, worriless.

 

There were bits and pieces, some smaller, some bigger, that made some weeks difficult and some days horrible. It was like walking out of the house on a wet, cool morning.

Maybe it was going to rain. Maybe it was going to be sunny.

You weren’t going to see for yourself if you didn’t have a reason to stand up, go outside and find out what was going to happen.

 

Enjolras’s reason smiled at him pointedly innocent, a mischievous brightness in blue and green eyes.

“How very romantic,” he said thoughtfully. “I like it. So, how do we go about this?”

Enjolras took the other man’s tie with his free hand and pulled him close to kiss him, slowly, sweetly, just like that. Holding hands, sharing air and lips, a gentle hand tangling in Enjolras’s hair. There was a warm, consuming intensity to the kiss that left a feeling of content that might have been pure and simple but in no way meaningless or trivial. It was everything.

Enjolras pulled away smiling.

Grantaire cleared his throat, a small sound, slightly out of breath, and opened his eyes, bright and beautiful.

“Right. Yeah. Good idea.”

 

***

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come and talk to be about my french children being happy on [tumblr](http://vintage-jehan.tumblr.com/).


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